


Stasis

by powerandpathos



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Head Girl Hermione Granger, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Multi, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-10 10:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 112,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7841071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos/pseuds/powerandpathos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going back to Hogwarts was supposed to be easy. It was supposed to be simple: in-and-out, grab your NEWTs and go. But it was Hogwarts, and she was Hermione Granger. And nothing ever seems to be easy anymore. </p><p>When a placement with the Ministry arises, and Wizarding Britain starts falling deeper into a recession following the war, Hermione tries to do all she can to stay afloat. But things are growing darker, and the Death Eaters might not be as defeated as they seemed. Throw in Draco Malfoy, and a courage that seems to be failing her, and 'staying afloat' is proving more difficult than she first thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the chance to come and read my story! I have written about 110k words for this so far, and expect the end work to be around 120k, so please expect regular updates! If you have any queries or comments, you can find me on my Tumblr at powerandpathos.tumblr.com.

The train was quiet. It was cool, and the September air filtered through the cracked windows, and the doors opened slowly and the corridors were bare and it was cold. The students’ pockets were empty, the trolley too full. The wheels of the Honeydukes Express rolled along with a hushed solemnity, clicking every couple of seconds, because they were old and disused, and because the old hands that held on tightly to the handles kept shaking. The veins were starkly blue against the weathered skin, the nails neat and round, and the sparse hairs on the back of her hand were cloud white. 

A door slid open, and a boy stepped out of his compartment. He was pale and smudgy and his eyes were nervous.

‘Anything from the trolley, dear?’ she said.

The boy looked over too quickly, too much white showing around the irises.

‘No,’ he mumbled, and his fingers rubbed at his wrist.

‘Would you like a Victory Frog?’ she asked. She held out the chocolate. The packaging was red and blue and yellow and every colour in between. ‘They’re free. Take some for your friends, too.’

He took it, and then took a full box into his compartment to meet timid thanks.

She smiled. The trolley was a little lighter. Her heart was a little heavier.

The train was too quiet.

 

* * *

 

 

McGonagall stood behind the lectern of the Great Hall, and Hermione wondered if she’d always looked that small – that old. She wondered if the teachers’ table had always seemed so sparse, if the candles had looked more like floating light bulbs than an expanse of stars.

The house tables were not as full as they used to be. The black robes made the room solemn and the mountains of food made it like they were at a wake. Laughter seemed out of place, and no one spoke too loudly. The sound of knives and forks scratching the plates stilled as the headmistress stood, cleared her throat, smoothed her robes, swallowed, and stared.

‘The past year has been anything but easy,’ she began. Her voice was startling in its familiarity, and it was warm. Hermione had spent the train ride wondering how it would begin, because she knew the woman couldn’t say nothing. Had to make some grand acknowledgment to fill the silence. ‘It seems wrong to call it anything but a horror. A trial. A massacre.’ She paused. The hall seemed to grow colder, heads bowing and shoulders quietly shaking. ‘But we have persevered, and we have won. We have lost, and we have been victorious. We have mourned, and we have celebrated. We have failed, and we have succeeded. We would not be sitting here now if every suffering that every individual in our community faced was not matched and overcome by the good that has been achieved.’ McGonagall waited as a Ravenclaw girl hurried from the hall, a hand around her shoulders, black robes sweeping low across the stone floor. Every eye followed her, and then swung back to the headmistress.

‘We remember our families and those we have lost. We remember our students who were killed by Voldemort. We remember them with heavy hearts and quiet words. We do not forget them. We do not tarnish their memories while this sanctuary remains that for a time was anything but.’

McGonagall seemed to blink for the first time, to take a breath.’ I am so proud of you,’ she said, her accent thick. Hermione felt her throat tighten. ‘I am so proud of every student that sits here before me. No child should have faced what each of you has faced. But you have. And you have come to this hall and you have returned to this school because you have chosen to learn and to study and to find a home in this community that _has not broken_. And you are the ones that have kept it together. Where we have failed you as teachers and protectors and parents, you have fought valiantly and undeterred.

‘Regardless of house and creed, I welcome you back to this school with open arms. I thank you for returning to make our society what it was and much, much better than what we made it. I hope that this next year you will find a peace and a light and a determination to strive towards greatness, and know that it can and _will_ be achieved so long as we strive for unity.’

McGonagall nodded with finality as the last of her words stopped echoing. There was a ferocity in her expression, in the set of her mouth, in the shrewdness of her eyes behind her glasses.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Eat and enjoy. Rest well tonight. Tomorrow will be a new day.’  

Voices slowly built as the headmistress took her seat with a careful grace, as the teachers leaned across one another to nod and murmur their appreciation, and Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. It was slow, it was shaky. It felt like progress.

‘That was heavy,’ Dean said. The students around him nodded.

‘It was necessary,’ Hermione said, ‘but it was heavy.’

‘You forget about it all sometimes,’ Ginny said. ‘Sometimes you think everything’s normal, and then suddenly it’s not.’

Hermione put a hand on her back, and then let it fall. ‘I don’t think we get to have normal for a while, Ginny.’

‘Not for a while,’ Neville murmured.

‘But not forever,’ Hermione said.

Ginny sighed. She ripped off a chunk of bread and dunked it in her soup. ‘No, not forever.’

The quietness seemed to slip away from the Gryffindors then, like a curtain had been lifted, or a light slowly brightened. They ate faster; laughter bubbled up with an awkward ease. It felt like removing the cobwebs, dusting the surfaces, folding up blankets that hid their other forms away in the dark, in the corner.

And Hermione wished it had felt that way for her. As she fingered the necklace resting between her collarbones, she wished she could just straighten out the creases, turn up the volume, let the sun shine through the clouds a little brighter. She wished her wand didn’t feel so ready in her hand, fingers curled around the wood in her pocket. She wished she hadn’t thought of looking for exits and strange shadows and staring eyes and placed her back to the wall like it was a second nature.

She wished she didn’t have to glamour her arm to stop the stilted conversation and the eyes darting to the marred skin, and that the thestrals weren’t so shockingly _present_. She wanted to ask Luna how she managed it, and then remember that they all managed it. She wished they didn’t have to manage anything.

‘Hermione?’ Neville said. He nudged his foot against hers under the table, and she raised her eyes. After a moment she smiled, too.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Just wishing.’

‘Make one for me, too?’

‘I’m sure I could make an exception.’

 

* * *

 

 

Across the hall, the conversation was a mirror image. Words were loaded, and eyes were furtive. There was too much food, too many empty plates, too much water in the wine.

Draco was wishing, too. That he didn’t have to glamour his arm to stop the stilted conversation and the eyes darting to the blackened skin, and that the shame wasn’t so sickening. The thing about being on the losing side was that you had to see yourself fail. It wasn’t easy to watch your faith being ripped apart around you, to know that you were so perversely _wrong_ about everything, while you thought that you were right.

He glanced over at the Gryffindors. The red and gold seemed muted. But they had it so _right_ – their loyalties, their unasked-for opinions. Draco wouldn’t say they were smug, but they didn’t have the shame. Couldn’t have it. They never had that dawning, heart-wrenching, dislocating feeling of knowing their whole being had been misplaced, and misaligned.

It would be wrong of him to say that none of them had, or that all of the Slytherins had, he realised. He was trying to work on his impartiality. But when a green and black banner hung above his head with the glistening beacon of a snake, and theirs showed a proudly seated lion, it wasn’t difficult to make assumptions.

‘Please stop crying, Daphne,’ Pansy whispered, not for the first time. Her voice was harsh and biting, but her eyes were soft her hand was not feeble as it rested on Daphne’s.

Draco looked at them, huddled in on themselves, food untouched. Pansy unscrewed a bottle from the depths of her robes and poured a finger into Daphne’s goblet. Pansy nodded at the girl, watching as it slid down her throat, her fingers thin and tight around the metal base. Her chin was wet from tears, and the white of her collar was turning dark and splotchy, like it was raining. 

‘What?’ Pansy said.

Theo was staring at her, shaking his head. ‘You know what.’

She leaned towards him, her face scrunched up tight. ‘That’s the best I can do for her. I don’t see you doing much else.’

Daphne’s head was drooping, eyes sliding shut. Her back sloped, and her blonde hair was falling loose from its plait. Tracey pulled her plate away from her head. She patted the fading girl on the shoulder.

‘I didn’t think she’d come back,’ Pansy said quietly to the group. She glanced at Daphne’s form. She wasn’t quite sleeping, but she wasn’t quite awake. Just hovering somewhere in between – purgatory. ‘If I lost my sister…’

‘You don’t have a sister, Pansy,’ Blaise said coolly. 

Pansy shot him a look. It was wicked and full of spite. ‘That’s why I said _if_. You don’t have to be so disgustingly apathetic about the whole thing.’

‘I’m not trying to muster up a sense of sympathy that I don’t feel,’ he told her, knife spinning easily between his fingers. His eyes didn’t leave hers. ‘She knew what side she was playing for. So did Astoria. So did her parents. We all did.’

No one said anything. They weren’t in a court, where a lawyer could pipe up with some defence – ‘But they were only _children_!’ – and they’d feel a sense of gratitude and righteousness and that self-hate and doubt wouldn’t swallow them whole.

Blaise shook his head and took a swig of his goblet. Draco wasn’t sure it was water. ‘I just can’t fucking believe I’m back here,’ he said. They were all thinking it. ‘Can’t fucking believe it.’

Those were the conditions for most of the students associated with or initiated as Death Eaters. Remain in education for a year under the surveillance of the teachers and submit a monthly report to some name on a Ministry-stamped letter. They earned a ‘DE’ next to their names on their records like a mockery of some pure-blood title, but at least they were alive. At least the stone walls belonged to a castle and not a prison – though sometimes Draco confused the two – and the food was warm and he could feel the press of his wand in his pocket. At least, at least, at least.

It was easier to think about what it could have been than to wish about what it wasn’t.

He looked across the hall, and watched as Granger put her hand, again, on the Weasley girl’s back. There was so much false comfort in the darkness of the hall. So many empty stomachs and sickening lumps at the back of throats. It had been months since the Battle of Hogwarts, since green lights flashed across the room and the castle lay in heaps of rubble and broken bodies. But it had barely been any time at all.

He knew what Daphne saw. Her sister’s still eyes and a reaching, frozen hand. He knew what the Weasley girl saw – a brother lying quietly on the table she ate off and smothered under a sheet. This place was a home, granted, but it was still too much.

‘I forgot how much happened here,’ Draco said. It was the first thing he’d said since the train ride. His silences were deafening, his stares piercing. He passed a hand over his mouth and heard the rasp of stubble against his skin.

Pansy looked over her shoulder, hazel eyes following his gaze, to Granger and the redhead, at every student in the hall whose expression was vacant and who held their bodies _just so,_ so that you knew how they felt. How their bones ached, how the flesh of their cheek was raw inside, how they didn’t think their ribs and hoarse throat could take that twisted heave anymore.

Pansy turned back, and glanced at Daphne. ‘I forgot that a war doesn’t just finish when the good side wins.’

 

* * *

 

 

‘It is entirely up to you, Miss Granger.’

Hermione nodded. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s not like I don’t feel like I have a choice. It’s just…’ She trailed off, feeling the weight of the badge in her hand. She had a responsibility for this school, for these students. She’d fought for them for seven years – what was one more?

‘I feel compelled to accept, Professor. It feels wrong to turn this opportunity down.’

Professor McGonagall gave her a measured look. It was somehow cool and warm, distanced and understanding. Hermione could understand that kind of look.

‘You have given everything but your life to this school, Miss Granger,’ she said. ‘To this day I am still in awe that that has not been the case. But I urge you to consider your health before accepting this title. To consider your timetable, the necessity of personal time, and to consider what you _want_.’

Hermione frowned. ‘You seem to be saying I shouldn’t accept this, Professor.’

‘I have given this badge to a number of students over the years, and as with every one of them, I know you will think only of what good you could do with this role, at the detriment of your own self. Be wise, Miss Granger. Put yourself first. I think it is about time that you deserved to do that.’

The metal glinted in her hands, moonlight passing through the window of the headmistress’s office. It lit the room in a white glow of candlelight and moonbeam. The Welcome Feast had finished and the night grew longer. Their conversation seemed solemn and private, taciturn. 

‘Who would you give it to if I declined?’ Hermione asked. She couldn’t help but ask it, tired as she was, desperate as she was to crawl into a bed – any bed.

‘At first I thought Miss Weasley might—’

‘No,’ Hermione interrupted, fervent. ‘That’s not fair. Fred. She’s got too much…’ It was so hard to get the words out.

‘I know,’ she said steadily. ‘But it is fair to give this to you?’

Hermione swallowed. ‘I almost… expected it. I’d said my goodbyes. They wouldn’t have remembered me anyway.’

‘Miss Granger—’

‘I’m fine. But not Ginny. I think that she’s not as strong as she wants to seem at the moment.’

McGonagall was looking at her, and Hermione knew how it sounded. Like every word out of her mouth reflected herself more than it did Ginny or anyone else – lightly, clumsily twisted to make it seem like it was not about herself at all. They were like a transparent shower curtain, drawn across to hide her nakedness, and through which everyone could see everything far too clearly, every bruised, broken part of her.

‘Please,’ Hermione said, when the silence continued. She didn’t want anyone to keep looking at her like McGonagall was at the moment. ‘Please continue.’

McGonagall leaned back in her chair. She folded her hands in front of her, and obliged. ‘Miss Davies is a possibility.’

‘The Slytherin girl?’

‘The Slytherin girl. And of course there is Miss Dunbar, Miss Patil, Miss Abott. A few others in Miss Weasley’s year group.’

The headmistress rubbed at her eyes beneath her glasses. With her eyes shut, Hermione couldn’t guess her age. Sixty? Ninety? Her hair was greying but it wasn’t thin, and her wrinkles were stress and laughter and made her seem real. Hermione hadn’t forgotten her strength in the battle. The tempest that surged from her while her home fell around her and her students perished in front of her, beneath her bloodied hands that tried desperately to cling on to their lives like they hung from a precipice.

Hermione said, ‘They are all… acceptable candidates, Professor.’

‘But they aren’t quite you, Miss Granger. Merlin forgive me for saying so.’

‘I shouldn’t appreciate that,’ Hermione said. _But I do._

I wish I could offer you something more than just a position more than this,’ McGonagall said. ‘I feel like schooling and its mundanities is quite lacking for you now. Perhaps it always had been.’

Hermione felt herself flush, cheeks blossoming pink. She didn’t want to admit that school, with its glorious banalities and processes of administration and roles exactly like Head Girl, were ones with which she had only ever felt normal. Perhaps now they were a disguise more than a truth, but they were a familiar disguise that she was happy to draw around herself like Harry’s Invisibility Cloak.

‘And please know that if you do not take on the position, you would still be an invaluable member of the prefect team should you wish to accept. I am not the only one that would appreciate your input.’

‘Professor, I’m not sure my head will fit through the door if you keep flattering me.’

The headmistress offered her a rare smile. It was wry and amused in a way that was a little dark. It made Hermione feel like she was privy to something she probably shouldn’t be.

‘I think you have been too often told to remain quiet, Miss Granger,’ she said slowly, ‘than be praised when you have chosen to speak up. This school needs that encouragement now. The students need to feel nurtured and worthy. And by that I mean _every_ student.’

‘I understand, Professor.’

‘I should hope so. That is why I have asked you.’ Professor McGonagall stood. Her robes fell around her in a neat curtain of black, unwrinkled. ‘Now. I think it is time I bid you goodnight and let you get some rest. It’s been a long evening and a long year for most of us. I look forward to the fresh day tomorrow.’

Hermione stood and held out her hand. The headmistress clasped it over the old desk, shaking with a steadiness and a strength that surprised her a little.

‘I will let you know by tomorrow evening, Professor,’ Hermione said.

‘Take the time you need, Miss Granger. Any current matters can wait until you decide.’

‘Thank you, Professor.’

‘Thank _you_ , Miss Granger,’ she returned. ‘I appreciate your presence in this school more than you know. With Mr Potter and Mr Weasley now in the hands of the Ministry’s training, I worried that the students would be bereft of a beacon that they so need at this time.’

Hermione felt a weight on her shoulders, a burden that wasn’t quite a burden. It felt like a shawl, the material heavy and _there_ , but it didn’t make her neck ache and her back strain to stand straight.

‘I’ll do my best, Professor.’

‘That’s all I can ask.’

Hermione walked towards the door. The room was so familiar. She waved sadly at the portrait of Dumbledore before she left, and he gave her a sad little wave back. She couldn’t see how his eyes glittered from the door.

‘Please send the next student in, Miss Granger,’ Professor McGonagall called on the way out. She was rifling through papers on her desk, her voice distant and somewhat absent. Their conversation was already lost somewhere amongst the papers, slipping to the back of a full mind.

Hermione nodded as she opened the door, unsprised that the headmistress would work so late on her first night.

Hermione let the door swing inwards, and she stared.

She hadn’t expected to see that face for some time. Pale, pointed. So… blank.

‘Malfoy,’ she said, the name falling from her mouth in mild shock.

He pushed away from the wall and put a hand on the wood of the open door. He was a little too close. The sleeve of his robe fell back, and Hermione thought she saw a smudge of black. 

‘Granger,’ he said.

Hermione turned her head in a stupor. The headmistress was watching them from her desk.

‘Professor…’ she began. ‘You’re not—?’

‘No, Miss Granger. This matter is entirely unrelated, I can assure you.’

And because she trusted her, Hermione nodded with a short jerk of her head. She turned back.

‘Malfoy,’ she said, letting go of the door handle.

‘Granger,’ he said. He walked past her and into the headmistress’ office. Hermione didn’t leave until she could hear their voices, a calm hum through the wood of the door, just in case. She wished she didn’t feel she had to.

 

* * *

 

‘What was he doing there?’ Ginny asked, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape.

Hermione pulled her feet under her until she felt small enough in the armchair.

‘I have no idea,’ she said. She rubbed a hand across her eyes; she thought she knew how McGonagall had felt.

The eighth year students now shared a wing of the castle, but it was quiet and everyone had drifted to bed. The girls’ bedrooms were along one corridor, the boys’ on another. Ginny and Hermione sat facing each other in the central common room. It didn’t have the familiar warmth of the Gryffindor tower, and the view of the lake was too much a glittering mirror of black at night, but Hermione was grateful that they were high up.

Chairs and sofas were scattered throughout the room, two fireplaces against opposing walls. The floor beneath the chairs was a little sunken, and raised flooring surrounded it, steps leading towards the corridors. The room felt open and lighter and lighter than the House common rooms had, like there was more room to breathe. But not knowing which unfamiliar student would walk through the portrait made Hermione’s shoulders tense, her jaw clench. Her wand shouldn’t have felt so hot.

‘She said it wasn’t about a headship,’ Hermione continued. Her voice was heavy with tiredness, but she wasn’t sure that even the quietness and the darkness of her own room would grant her any sleep. Her arm itched. ‘Maybe she was warning him.’

‘I hate to say it because he’s Malfoy, but that would seem a little… unfair of her,’ Ginny said. ‘He hasn’t done anything yet. I thought she wanted everyone to have a fresh start.’

‘Except for the fact that he’s Malfoy and you couldn’t help but say ‘yet’.’ Hermione gave her a wry look. ‘Maybe it was a personal matter. About his sentence. Or his family.’

‘I’m still amazed his parents are actually in Azkaban. They almost seemed untouchable.’

Hermione nodded. She remembered the little black book that slipped into Ginny’s cauldron. How nothing had come to Lucius for letting an eleven-year-old girl have her body and her mind possessed. For making her _do_ things. How no one other than Harry had ever raised a finger against him for it. ‘Everyone gets caught eventually,' she said, with not a small amount of grim satisfaction. 'You can’t have Voldemort live in your house and say you weren’t somehow associated.'

‘They had the excuse of the Imperius Curse.’

‘There were too many people at Malfoy Manor. There’s not a single Death Eater now that is going to say anything but something to save their own skin. They'd never try and save a family that would never lift a finger for them.’

‘But they were the _Malfoys_ …’ 

‘ _Are_ the Malfoys, Weasley. I’m still here.’

The girls looked over to the portrait. They hadn’t heard him come in. He slipped off his robe, rolled his shirt up to his elbows. They looked at his arm, and he looked at them.

‘If only that weren’t the case,’ Ginny muttered. She pushed herself up from the brown armchair, red hair like a fire spreading down her back.

She had cut it over summer, short enough that it barely touched her neck. Her mother saw her and cried. Hermione sent her a hair growth potion the next morning.

Malfoy was hovering. There were books on a side table near the entrance. Hermione didn’t know whose they were, but his pale, thin fingers skittered over the ink on the pages. His eyes didn’t move. He was like a fountain, cold stone and a flow of icy water. She wondered if anything about him could be mistaken for warmth.

‘See you at breakfast, Hermione,’ Ginny murmured, brushing past her. She slipped quickly through the portrait, footsteps feather light and a little too fast.

‘I hope she didn’t leave because of me,’ Malfoy said. His words were too careful to be laziness, but they were close.

Hermione refused to turn around, but her wand was in her hand. She hadn’t found her own wand since the Snatchers stole it from her. Using Bellatrix’s wand forever seemed like a prison sentence. Her new wand was a little longer, a little thinner. They didn’t quite know one another fully, but Hermione thought they would soon.

‘I wouldn’t flatter yourself,’ she said.

‘What else am I supposed to do with my time?’

She thought he was trying to be funny. But it didn’t work – not with that face, that voice, that twist of his lips. His humour was too tinged with a cruelty that matched the lingering scratches of the word on her arm.  

Hermione stood, heading towards the girls’ corridor.

‘Where are you going?’ Malfoy said.

She paused, turned, raised an eyebrow. ‘To bed.’ _If that’s all right with you?_

Malfoy leaned against the sofa Hermione had just vacated, arms folded. ‘Aren’t you just _burning_ to know what McGonagall wanted?’

‘Malfoy,’ she said. ‘No offence. But I couldn’t give a damn what she wanted with you. I don’t want to know anything about you.’

Everything stilled for a moment, thick and hot, and then he _smiled_.

There was too much silence for too long, and it made her heart hurt and her head hurt and her eyes sting to see that smile. Because _Merlin_ she didn’t want to see him be anything that could be confused for happiness. He didn’t _get_ to smile when he had lived the seven years at Hogwarts that he had, and she had lived the seven years that she had.

But he didn’t get to see her anger anymore, because it had always been frustration and disappointment and a _tiny_ desire for him to prove her wrong. And now he was too typical, too expected. He wasn’t a hope for redemption and enlightenment. He was lost opportunity in smart clothes, snow white hair and a smile made for the night.

She walked through the corridor in silence, went into her room in silence – whites, creams, browns, a seam stitched with gold and red – and stared at the canopy of her double bed. She wished she were too tired to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

The first day was strange. The students knew where the classrooms were; they knew who their professors were. Their timetable was not unfamiliar, and the textbooks were as heavy and as droll as usual. But their feet stumbled, their bodies took them on wrong turns down wrong corridors and wrong staircases. Their classes were a blur, voices of authority a hum in their ears, the black and white print was foreign.

‘It’ll take a while,’ Hermione said to Hannah. The Hufflepuff sat so still in her chair, back rigid, cheeks a burning flame. She’d given the wrong answer twice to questions Hermione remembered from her third year exams.

‘I spent weeks over summer reading back through my notes,’ Hannah whispered.

‘It’s the mundane things we forget,’ Hermione replied. ‘Just you wait – you probably know half the syllabus for your N.E.W.T exams and you won’t even know it.’

The girl offered her a dull smile. She was slouching a little more now, and she tucked blonde tendrils behind her ear. ‘I appreciate it, Hermione. I do. But you don’t need to try and make me feel better.’

Hermione blinked. ‘I wasn’t—’ She paused, and caught the inquisitive eye of Professor Slughorn. ‘Never mind,’ she muttered.

She was conscious of her classmates around her. The class was full, with only ten students. Only twenty of their year had returned at all. It was strange to be taught amongst a mix of the houses, but then it had been strange to walk out of her room that morning and walk into Pansy Parkinson just outside her door.

Stranger still was the silence. The lack of acknowledgment. The way their eyes somehow failed to meet, and the way she and Pansy had walked to breakfast beside one another with such an air of unfamiliarity it was as if the other was invisible. Ginny gave her a questioning look once she reached her table; Hermione ignored that, too.

‘I know many of you will be familiar with this particular potion,’ Horace was saying. ‘Perhaps more of you will recall the _particular_ aptitude that our own Mr Potter exuded when producing such a draught.’ Hermione frowned as she recalled the particular aptitude of Harry to follow the scribbled words of Severus Snape, scrawled in the margins with such alarming persistency.

She wondered what the boys were doing in that moment. Dodging mock curses, perhaps? Sitting in a hall of fellow trainees as the words of an Auror drilled into them? Hermione snorted quietly to herself. It was not yet nine o’clock. Of course they would be sleeping.

‘As always, I warn you to work on this potion with a _particular_ caution,’ Slughorn continued. ‘If you are hesitant at any moment do not continue without consulting me. Your ingredients are before me on my desk, and you may find the potion on page one hundred and forty-two. Please begin, and good luck!’

It didn’t take long for the feel of a knife in her palm and the heat of a cauldron on her face until Hermione moved with a mindlessness that sometimes concerned her. Seconds, minutes, _hours_ could pass before she fell back into herself as if from the rush of a port key. When the instructions were numbered, printed on a page, there was no doubt, no hesitancy. Only this time she saw the page littered with annotations. Her own copy was blank, but in a blink she saw the words of the deceased Potions Master swarm across the page.

‘What are you doing?’

Hermione looked up, into the face of Blaise Zabini. She looked down and blinked at the blade in her hand, crushing the Sopophorous bean on her palette.

‘Experimenting,’ she said.

Blaise shifted, and she watched as he laid the bean on his palette, and bore his weight down on his dagger until it split. Slowly, Hermione squeezed the juice into the cauldron. Zabini followed suit. Fumes built up around them in billows.

It was not a surprise when Slughorn sang her praises at the end of the class, and it was not a surprise when he commended Blaise for his stellar efforts. He had not caught the added stir, though his watchful gaze was unnerving.

As she put her things in her satchel, he leaned across to her, tall and dark and towering. The yellow light that shone weakly through the room made his cheekbones look sharper than the daggers.

‘How did you know how to do that?’ he asked her. His tone was low and curious.

Hermione slung her bag over her shoulder, and she felt her shoulder blades twinge with the weight. ‘It was guesswork.’

‘Don’t lie.’

‘It’s a potion, Zabini,’ she said, pulling her thick hair back from her face with a sigh. Her palms were a little sticky with the juice from the Sopophorus, and the fumes had made her head hurt and her breath a little laboured. ‘Textbooks can be wrong, and life is about self-discovery. Is that a good enough answer for you?’

He gave her a steady look as he fastened the buckle on his bag. ‘I’m glad to see that year strolling about the countryside helped you with your bullshitting.’

Hermione flashed him a grin. Her teeth were too bright, and her mouth too wide. It was not a smile. ‘I was already an expert in that long before _you_ made it a necessity to survive.’ The ‘you’ was not singular, and her words were not kind. She had learnt that kindness was not a necessity to survive.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione ate dinner with the headmistress that evening. They shared a cauldron of leek-and-potato soup, thick slices of warm bread, and bread and butter pudding with custard that stuck to their gums.

Neither was sure why they ate so much – perhaps it was the dim lighting in the headmistress’ apartments, the soft chairs and the lilt of the fire. Maybe it was the building stress and the strange newness of the first day. Maybe it was an emptiness they were so hungrily desperate to fill.

‘Thank you for that, Professor,’ Hermione said. The words were almost a sigh, and she leaned back in the armchair with her hands resting on her stomach, elbows on the arms of the chair. ‘It was quite lovely.’

‘I can’t take all the credit,’ Professor McGonagall replied. She adopted the same pose. ‘In fact I don’t think I could take any.’

She wasn’t wearing her robes that evening. Her glasses were missing, her greying hair was in a loose bun. She wore a long black skirt and grey Fair Isle jumper. The headmistress did not seem to find it strange that the clothing had found its way onto her in place of her robes, no matter how Hermione waited for it, breath held as McGonagall tugged at strand of cotton at the hem of her jumper.

‘I’ve given some thought to your offer,’ Hermione said, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

‘That’s good. I was hoping you might have. If you need more time…’

‘No, I’ve made my decision,’ she said, nodding her head once with a decisive up-and-down. Her chin stuck out a little, and her pupils were large as she met the gaze of her teacher and mentor. ‘I’d like to be head girl,’ she said. ‘But I’d like it to be a joint role with a seventh year student. I think the same should apply for the head boy, and also there should be a joint deputy team.’

There was a long silence, and then Professor McGonagall slowly raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re suggesting an eight-member headship?’

Hermione nodded. ‘I am.’

‘And what about the role of the prefects?’

‘They’d still exist, but solely to represent their houses. The heads and their deputies would be concerned with overarching school matters. Events, patrol schedules, coordination with any subject-related matters, and working in conjunction with the prefects to ensure the happiness of the students in their houses. That sort of thing.’

McGonagall nodded as she drank water from her goblet. She waved a hand towards Hermione in a vague motion. Her stare was piercing over the rim of the glass. ‘And is there a reason for this?’ she asked.

‘It would be quite strange of me to not have one, Professor,’ Hermione said, a smile. The headmistress conceded and returned it, just a twitch of her thin lips. ‘We need a network of support this year. A team that represents every students’ interest. We need to represent the unity that you mentioned last night – both in structure and as a visual framework.’

‘Yes, I can visualise it,’ she murmured. ‘You’d look _quite_ the team.’

‘I think it would be necessary.’

‘Indeed.’

They lulled into silence again, and they stared at each other for a time that Hermione was too tired to count.

Finally McGonagall blinked and cleared her throat. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I think it is worth attempting.’

Hermione bit back a grin. She felt her toes curl and her breath caught in her throat for a moment. Glee soared through her veins. ‘Thank you, Professor. I won’t let you down.’

‘Please, Miss Granger,’ McGonagall said, her tone droll. ‘I dare say I wouldn’t agree if _that_ was in doubt.’

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, a notice board had been erected outside the Great Hall. Hermione smiled at it every morning that week.

 

DEAR STUDENTS,

I AM PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE THE MEMBERS OF THIS YEAR’S HEAD STUDENT TEAM:

 **HEAD STUDENTS:** HERMIONE GRANGER / THEODORE NOTT

LUNA LOVEGOOD / NATHANIEL HOMERIDGE

 **DEPUTY HEAD STUDENTS:** PADMA PATIL / JUSTIN FINCH-FLETCHLEY

GINNY WEASLEY / ALEXANDER QUERITTE 

THE HEAD STUDENT TEAM WILL BE RESPONSIBLE FOR MATTERS THAT INCLUDE OVERSIGHT OF HOUSE PREFECT DUTIES, ORGANISING WHOLE SCHOOL EVENTS, ASSISTING THE HEADMISTRESS AND DEPUTY-HEAD OF HOGWARTS WITH PRESSING MATTERS, SERVING AS CONDUIT BETWEEN STUDENTS AND THEIR SUBJECT TUTORS, AND OTHER ANY OTHER NECESSARY ISSUES.

EACH HEAD STUDENT WILL HOLD OFFICE HOURS FOR ONE HOUR PER WEEK WHERE ANY STUDENT IS WELCOME TO DISCUSS ANY RELEVANT CONCERNS. PLEASE SEE THEIR INDIVIDUAL PROFILE SHEETS ON THE NOTICE BOARD OUTSIDE THE GREAT HALL.

A HOUSE PREFECT LIST WILL FOLLOW SHORTLY.

KIND REGARDS,

HEADMISTRESS MINERVA MCGONAGALL – HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

 

It took a day for students to understand the system that had been created, and Hermione tried to listen surreptitiously to conversations in hallways and bathrooms and at meal times. The tone ranged from eager and approving, to apathetic and noncommittal. She was grateful that no student seemed particularly grieved by the new format.

 

* * *

 

 

For the first ten minutes Hermione plaited her hair. For the next ten minutes she tried to see if there was anything in the room not fixed to the floor that she couldn’t levitate. There wasn’t. When the half-hour mark slinked around, her head ducked over a book, Hermione thought she imagined the knock.

She knew that office hours, even as she proposed them to McGonagall, and talked about their importance with the head Prefect team, watching their slyly exchanged glances, that no one would really use them. Students didn’t have the confidence; they didn’t have the energy. And though it filled her with something of a pang, Hermione did not mind too greatly. It was an hour a week, and she did not might the relative peace it allowed her.

And yet.

It wasn’t until the second knock that she called out, ‘Come in.’

The door opened, and a head appeared around the edge. ‘Are you busy?’ they said.

Hermione waved a hand around the dusty room. ‘You are interrupting the rapt audience I have in front of me as I read _Hogwarts: A History_. It’s a very intimate gathering.’

The boy looked around, and then looked at Hermione. His eyes widened and lips parted. Realisation had dawned. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You’re joking.’

‘I was joking.’ Hermione pushed the empty chair backwards with her foot. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Do come and sit.’

He sat gingerly, movements uncertain and flittery, like a firefly trapped in a jar. He chewed at his lip between large teeth.

‘How can I help you?’ Hermione asked. ‘Felix, right?’

‘Yes. Some of my friends call me Flix.’

‘Flix,’ she said. ‘That’s cool. What did you want to have a chat about, Flix?’

His brown eyes widened even further, a red blush creeping across the bridge of their nose. He was distinctly rabbit-like.

‘I had some questions,’ he began. ‘About what you did last year.’

'Last year?'

'In the war.'

Hermione leaned back in her chair a little, and she played with the leather strap of her watch. ‘That’s not really…’

‘Professor Tenrin wants my Defence class to do a project on a war hero. We have to do a profile on them and write about their strongest moments in the war.’

Hermione wondered if that was appropriate. It didn’t seem right to glorify something like that, so wrapped up in a halcyon victory that people forgot that the winners were losers too.

‘Flix… I’m… _flattered_  that you think I’m worth writing about for your project,’ Hermione said. ‘And I think it’s a really smart idea for you to come and have this talk with me, but you must understand that the war wasn’t some sort of game or some sort of _test_ where we passed some things and failed others. Do you understand?’

The boy nodded, so serious he was almost comical. ‘I get it.’ He got it. And then he said, ‘Is this about what happened at the Malfoy Manor?’

It hit Hermione like a punch in the gut, knuckles dressed in metal, poison in the spikes. Her arm felt like it was burning, and her mouth grew suddenly dry. She could feel her heart beating fast and panicky, a bird chained in its cage and its wings too large for the bars.

‘That’s… not something I’m comfortable discussing, Felix,’ she said, swallowing.

‘I told Adam that you would have fought Bellatrix Lestrange. I told him she didn’t really torture you. That didn’t happen did it? You beat her, didn’t you?’

‘Felix—’

‘You’re much better than that. I bet she didn’t even hurt you at all, did she?’

‘Felix. That’s enough.’

‘Not even she could perform the Cruciatus Curse on you.’

And then he reached for her arm.

‘That’s _enough_!’ she shouted, chair scraping back with a force hard enough to cut grooves into the floor. ‘I said that’s _enough_!’

She blinked, and her wand was shaking in her hand, inches from his small nose.

The boy was pale in the chair, eyes round and scared, and too much white showed. His hands held onto the seat with fading knuckles; Hermione towered over him. His feet didn’t quite reach the floor.

‘I’m s-sorry,’ he whispered. He didn’t blink. ‘I’m sorry.’

She was going to lower her wand, going to sigh and fall back into her chair gracelessly with her head in her hands. Going to spill apology after apology and let him know that she was still so _scared_ and she wasn’t the hero he wanted to write about and she would understand if he told McGonagall about this – understood that the badge would have to be unpinned and settled back in that thin hand.

But she didn’t. Because the door opened. And when Draco Malfoy walked in without ceremony and stood there all she could see was the way his eyes suddenly _shone_.

 

* * *

 

 

As every second passed, the sickness in Hermione’s stomach deepened. She pocketed her wand, eyes on the floor. She knew he was watching everything, and she couldn’t bear to look at him.

‘You should leave,’ he said. It took Hermione a moment to realise that he was speaking to Felix, and that the boy was already halfway out the door. It shut with a quiet _click_.

The silence that followed was awful. Her ears rang with it, and her sight seemed to furl in at the edges, blackening like a light leak on an old film reel.

‘What do you want?’ she said at last. She’d hate herself if he got the first word in, the first sly smile that matched his water-grey eyes and made her want to cry. It was too familiar.

They looked nothing alike – Bellatrix had had dark eyes, dark hair. They were both porcelain white, granted, but Hermione wondered if it was that curl of the lip, the potential for madness that sat waiting behind the irises, shrieking to be let out and wreak havoc with a silver tongue that made them look foreign to one another. So maybe it was the association, the memory of his face just lingering in the backdrop as her eyes had fallen past the face that hovered over her, leering and wretched, that made him so awful.

‘Office hours,’ he said, as if it were obvious. ‘They’re available to everyone, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, but what do you _want_?’

Hermione walked over to the desk. She stuck a quill in her book to mark the page, and then tucked it under her arm. She shoved her other hand in her pocket, fingers curled around a safety net she wished she wasn’t so dependent on.

‘I wanted to speak with you,’ he finally said.

‘For Merlin’s sake,’ Hermione muttered. ‘I _understand_ that. That is why you are here, Malfoy. That’s the whole bloody point that you’re _here_. To _talk_.’

He shuffled, put his hands behind his back, and let his eyes roam the ceiling. ‘I had a question about Quidditch,’ he said mildly.

‘Quidditch.’ And then: ‘Of course you did.’

Because this was Hogwarts, and Malfoy had to report to an Auror once a month, and Hermione hadn’t yet let go of her wand. Her head was a loaded arsenal; all she had to do was light the spark. The walls and their portraits whispered, and someone would go looking if Hermione didn’t turn up to her next lesson. She wasn’t safe, but she was close enough that she could put the book back down and put her hands on the desk when she sat back down without holding her wand.

‘Sit,’ she said, half-surprised when he did. _Don’t think you can tell me what to do, Mudblood_. She waited until he’d settled himself, long legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded neatly. ‘So. _Quidditch_.’

‘I know this isn’t exactly your area of _expertise_ ,’ he began.

‘That’s an understatement.’

‘But the teams as they stand allow a seven-member entry into the House Cup,’ he continued. ‘This year there is an extra year group.’

Hermione frowned ‘The student numbers of the whole school this year stand as if our year group didn’t exist. The year groups are too small,’ she told him. Not by much, but enough. ‘Parents compromise their children’s education for their safety.’  

‘But there is an extra year group,’ he said. His voice was weirdly calm; she thought this was the first time they’d had a conversation. It was hard to keep eye contact with him, and she found herself looking at her nails or pulling on the sleeve of her robes. She didn’t feel like a head girl. How was it that the head girls when she was in her first few years at Hogwarts had seemed so much older, so certain?

She wondered why she felt so old and _un_ certain, and if that was really fair.

‘Yes, there’s an extra year group,’ she conceded. ‘You’re suggesting there should be bigger teams?’

‘A reserve player or two,’ he said. ‘Or two teams per house with a change of only two players. It would be up to the captain which team plays which match.’

‘And the point of that would be?’

‘So all players with enough skill to play get the opportunity to.’

Hermione raised an eyebrow. ‘You never quite struck me as an advocate for equal opportunity.’

‘I wouldn’t quite go that far,’ Malfoy said, leaning back in his chair. He had the ghost of a smile. ‘I’m not jumping up to join your vomit group.’

‘S.P.E.W,’ she said, voice hard. ‘It was called S.P.E.W.’

‘A very unfortunate acronym.’

‘You know, I never really liked Quidditch. This doesn’t much interest me…’

He gave her a bored look – like _she_ was boring. ‘I’m only toying,’ he said.

She sighed, a steady heave of her lungs. ‘Look, I’ll speak to the others about it this week and get back to you by Friday at the latest. I can’t see it being a problem, but I might have to take it to McGonagall.’

‘Don’t tell her I asked,’ he said. He was a little quieter, a little less confident.

She looked at him. His eyes were lowered, and he was staring at the desk. It didn’t seem like there was anything that interesting to look at.

‘Don’t tell her about _that,_ either.’

He looked at her then, and something slid across his face, shifting behind his eyes, settling on his lips. It was so dark.

‘Are we making a deal, Granger?’ he asked, and the words were so low she could feel the timbre of it in her throat. They made the hair on her arms stand up, made her eyes ache with the strain it took not to look away.

She wasn’t sure she could speak, so she nodded, an uncertain jerk of her head. ‘It’s an arrangement,’ she muttered, ‘that benefits us both.’

He cocked his head to the side. ‘I think you’d lose more than I.’

‘Only if you considered your equal rights bullshit to be the truth,’ she snapped, words a warning. ‘Because I could find out what you’re up to, Malfoy. And trust me – it wouldn’t take me very long.’

He knew she meant it, and she knew he would be a fool not to consider her.

‘Were you listening at the door, Malfoy?’ Hermione suddenly said, because it had dawned on her what kind of creature he was. ‘Waiting for something to go wrong? Did you send Felix here knowing what he’d say?’

‘Come on,’ Malfoy said, expression a façade of someone who could be offended by someone like her. ‘Now you’re confusing me with _you_. All that scheming and planning you wasted your energy on. I’m a being of opportunity.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, face twisted. ‘You just sit there and slither out of your cave when the time is right and slither back when you’re too much of a coward to finish what you started.’

His eyes shouldn’t have looked so dark when the afternoon light washed the room so pale. He was quiet for a while, just watching her, body utterly still. Hermione felt herself tense, muscles aching with the anticipation.

And then Malfoy rose to his feet, like he was alive again. ‘Better watch that mouth of yours, Granger,’ Malfoy said. He waved a finger in her direction; it made her feel small. ‘It could get you into all _sorts_ of trouble.’

When he left she let out a breath – slow and shaky – that she didn’t realise she’d been holding. It was hard to focus for the rest of the afternoon.


	3. Chapter 3

When the letter from the Ministry came the next morning, Hermione felt her world fall out beneath her. She saw the stamp, the dark cursive on the front, and all she could think was, _How dare they only send a letter? Weren’t they worth more than that?_

But then she saw the front of the newspapers. Minister Shacklebolt stood there, solemn, holding a brick from a collapsed building behind of him, and talking to someone who looked a little less like a Minister and more like a construction wizard.

No death.

And she nearly kicked herself, because no Auror training could be that dangerous, could it?

‘Are you all right, Hermione?’ Dean asked. ‘You’re pale as a sheet.’

‘Oh, fine,’ she said, and she laughed a little. ‘I thought – I thought Harry and Ron were both dead for a second.’ The words sounded ridiculous to her own ears. As if they’d survive the last seven years and finally fall at something so… mundane.

Dean looked at her in alarm. ‘Why would you…?’ and then he saw the letter in her hand, unopened, the cream vellum of the envelope pressed and unmarked. ‘Are you going to open it?’

She held it out for him, hovering over a stack of buttered toast. ‘Would you?’ she said.

He nodded, took it, and slid a finger beneath opening. The letter slid out so smoothly that Hermione wondered if they’d wasted the magic to enchant it.

Dean’s eyes cast skimmed over the contents, and then he glanced up at her, face expressionless. He looked down, cleared his throat, and began to read.

‘Dear Miss Hermione Granger,’ he said. ‘The Ministry of Magic is currently offering three internship positions throughout the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland. The positions would allow the successful witches and/or — wizards eighteen-years-old and above — to be mentored by the current Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt.’

Dean shot her an impressed look, and Hermione waved her hand at him impatiently.

He nodded and continued: ‘The Ministry of Magic aims to enrich the chosen witches and/or wizards with direct insight into the workings of the Ministry of Magic, and we would like to present to you the ability to apply for this unique opportunity. Your placement would take place for one day per week, on a day of your choosing, from 7am until 9pm. The internship bears the equivalent rate of one ‘Outstanding’ N.E.W.T. for those completing their N.E.W.T examinations in the summer.

If successful with your initial application, you would be invited for an interview at the Ministry of Magic in London, and you would be accepted or declined following the conduct of the interview.

An application form has been attached to this letter, and we welcome you to apply by the 1st October. If you have any difficulty applying by this date, please let us know. If you wish not to apply, please RSVP at your earliest convenience to the address stated on the application form.

We wish you luck with your application, and hope to see you soon.

Best of luck with your studies,

Percy Weasley, Assistant to the Minster of Magic

Ministry of Magic, London.’ 

Dean handed Hermione the paper, and she took it wordlessly, glancing at the words ‘personal appraisal’ and ‘qualities for employability’ on the application form. She realised that a number of surrounding students had fallen silent. They looked at her with rapt attention, as if waiting for something.

‘What?’ she said.

Padma piped up from the Ravenclaw table behind her, ‘What do you mean _what_? Are you going to _apply_?’

Various heads nodded.

‘It would be such a wasted opportunity not to,’ Neville said.

Hermione looked at them all indignantly. ‘Well of course I’m going to apply,’ she said. ‘Who do you think I am?’

She heard a few snatches of laughter, and the sound of chatter, knives and forks scraping and tea and coffee sloshing about in mugs resumed.

Dean leaned across, and he patted her arm. ‘That’s really great, Hermione.’

‘It is,’ Ginny said. ‘I’m so happy for you. The boys will be thrilled for you once they hear.’

Hermione felt warm, sated like she’d spent an afternoon in the glow of a summer sun. Like she’d eaten her mother’s Sunday roast, and Molly Weasley’s jam roly poly, all in one go. She felt a glimmer of what she’d felt on that first day of May that had felt so endless and hazy, standing in the headmaster’s office, the applause of the portraits ringing in her ears as she, Harry and Ron gazed up at the image of Dumbledore. He’d smiled at them, and she felt like she had finally done something _right_.

‘I wish I was modest enough to say something self-deprecating,’ Hermione said, ducking her head a little. Her hair fell around her face in a curled mass.

‘Please,’ Padma said, leaning backwards as she chipped in again. Her smiling face was nearly pressed onto Hermione’s shoulder. ‘Nobody has time for that.’

Hermione gave the deputy head girl a smile.

‘You deserve it,’ Dean said kindly. He glanced around the room. ‘I wonder who else from Hogwarts got a letter.’

Hermione looked about too, as if by some visual feat she could see who else was holding that identical piece of paper. ‘Possibly no one. They might have sent it to lots of people not in education, or not at Hogwarts.’

‘What do you think you’ll get to do?’ Ginny asked, hands cupping her chin as she leaned over. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but they were still a little wide in eager wonderment.

Hermione grinned. ‘Probably something really boring like fetching coffee and sitting quietly in meetings.’

‘Watering plants,’ Neville offered.

‘Emptying bins,’ Seamus chipped in.

Ginny raised her mug of coffee. ‘Sending out Howlers.’ She took a swig, and then shuddered. Hermione wasn’t quite sure if it was in response to the coffee or the image of Hermione’s voice shrieking through a floating envelope. They recalled Mrs Weasley’s Howler in their second year with painful fondness.

‘I can see the _Daily Prophet_ headlines now,’ Hermione said wryly. ‘ _Golden Trio Hero Toilet-Cleaning in Ministry of Magic: Victors or Vanquished?_ ’

‘Merlin, you even sound like Skeeter,’ Parvati said, picking the almonds off a sugar-dusted croissant. Her humoured voice was tinged with the slightest concern.

‘That woman and I have had more than enough to do with one another for a life time.’

Parvati huffed a laugh. She gave Dean the rest of her pastry, and Hermione watched with as she wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin before suddenly dropping it onto the table, a violent red blush across her cheeks.

Dean grinned. ‘I like it when you look after me,’ he said. Seamus choked on his orange juice.

Hermione glanced around the emptying hall with a small sigh. She slung her satchel over the shoulder from where it lay on the floor. ‘And on _that_ note,’ she said, brushing down her robes, ‘I think I’ll be on my way.’

 

* * *

 

‘Congratulations, Granger,’ Theodore Nott said, settling into the seat beside her in Runes.

The room was cool, windows slightly ajar, and the papers on Bathsheda Babbling’s desk fluttered with the slight breeze. The chalkboard was filled with an alarming number of symbols that Hermione struggled to mentally translate, and a thin layer of chalk dust covered the floor beneath the board, small footprints marching through it.

She glanced at Theodore as he began pulling books from his bag. ‘That’s kind of you,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he said.

The professor was wandering around at the front of the classroom, rifling through textbooks and searching through the sprawling mass of unmarked essays and towers of academic journals that seeped across her desk; they leaned dangerously towards the floor.

Hermione watched the woman with her mouth tilted up at the corner. It was strange to be watching her, just as she had in third year, bustling about with a total lack of awareness. She shoved pencils and quills in her mass of grey hair, chewed on the arm of her glasses, muttering around the metal, bruised her hips on the corners of the desks and trod on the hem of her floral skirt.

‘She doesn’t change, does she?’ Theodore muttered. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a lightness in his eyes. He handed Hermione a letter, and it took her a moment to register the Ministry stamp, that same cursive scrawl across the front. She didn’t need to pull it out to know what it said.

‘I think I should be the one congratulating you,’ she said, eyebrows raised, handing it back.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘You’re welcome,’ Hermione replied. They looked at one another, unsmiling, and then turned to face the front of the classroom as the professor let out her usual ‘Right, then.’                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

* * *

                                                                         

Silence carried them through the rest of the class, heads bent over their worksheets, fingers dipping into textbooks in an attempt to translate something they hadn’t studied in a year. Bathsheda flitted about between the five students, leaning over desks and murmuring in ears.

Halfway through the lesson, Theodore spoke again. ‘You know,’ he murmured, not looking up from his worksheet, ‘we could work on our applications together? I reckon we’d have a better chance at an interview if we both knew what the hell we were writing about.’

Hermione considered his offer for a second, only a second, because she knew when not to be stupid and not to let her mangled sense of pride take over her.

‘I think that’s a good idea,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe we’ll make more sense of that than these Runes.’

‘You think it’s hard, too?’

Hermione shook her head. ‘Hard? I don’t have a clue what any of this means.’

She saw his shoulders shake with muted laughter. ‘Thank Merlin. I thought I’d lost my touch.’

‘Maybe you have,’ she said, not unkindly. ‘I think we all have. It’ll take a while.’

‘I’ve said that to probably every Slytherin I know.’

‘So have I.’

Bathsheda chose that moment to clear her throat. Loudly. She wasn’t looking at the head boy and girl, but her chin was a little raised, her back a little straight, her customary ‘if you have something to say then please share it’ kind of composure.

Hermione bit her lip. ‘Professor?’ she said, raising her hand hesitantly. The witch looked over the rim of her glasses towards Hermione. ‘Would you mind giving me some help with these translations? I’m not sure I’m doing them correctly.’

Bathsheda stared at her, and then let a smile spread across her face. She swung her legs around from beneath her desk and walked over to Hermione.

‘I wondered who would be the first to ask,’ Bathsheda said. She looked around at the remaining four students. ‘The work sheet I have given you is the same one that I had to complete in order to teach this class at Hogwarts. They were such old runic symbols that I barely got half of the questions right.’

Hermione caught Theodore’s glance out the corner of her eye. _That explains that_ , it said.

‘Now _this_ sheet is the correct one that I would like you to complete during the remaining half of the lesson,’ Bathsheda said, handing out a piece of parchment. Hermione felt lighter when she caught sight of a row of familiar runes. ‘If you have any issues, I expect you to ask me immediately. I know that it is difficult to sometimes ask for help,’ she said, voice dropping in volume, ‘but you mustn’t feel like you can’t. No matter what confuses you or upsets you or angers you, you _must_ know that you can ask at any moment for help.’ Her eyes roamed again. ‘Do you understand?’

And Hermione nodded along with the others. Perhaps it would take half an hour again before she shakily raised her hand, but she was a stubborn creature, and knowing there was an easy way out was not something her nature allowed her to acknowledge.

Not for anything.

 

* * *

 

 

It was bizarre sitting in a common room and seeing faces that made you tense and think, not unkindly, _I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here._ Ernie Macmillan lay faced-down on a sofa; Padma sat on the floor in front of him. Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass sat together in an alcove in the corner of the room, heads pressed close as Pansy painted the girl’s nails, feet in her lap, knees drawn up. And Hermione stood against the fire. It was low and spitting and not too hot; a nearby window was cracked open and the night air seeped through.

A radio sounded from somewhere in the room, quiet and tinny, and if she closed her eyes and felt the cold on her bare arms, she could imagine herself in the tent that had been her shelter for a year.

Mattresses were too soft now, pillows too high, sheets suffocating as they snared around her legs. Charms for her unruly hair seemed pointless, and her empty make-up bag left everything to be desired. What a difference a year made.

Harry and Ron had owled – they wanted to speak that evening, and Hermione waited tirelessly as the eighth year common room drained of its occupants. They filtered out in a dream-like state, one by one, as if called by some formless creature to their rooms, an enchanted Pied Piper.

Neville wished her a goodnight, Seamus and Dean waved, a few Ravenclaws petered off, and then she was alone. Blissfully, dreadfully alone. 

She crouched in front of the fireplace, and waited as the minutes ticked on, waited in silence save for the crouch of floorboards beyond the doors in the girls’ and boys’ corridors as her classmates drifted between the bathrooms and their rooms.

Until the fire finally sputtered, Hermione felt the heaviness of her eyes pulling her to sleep, head bowed against her chest, back hunched. She blinked away her tiredness, and watched as Harry’s and Ron’s faces settled into view.

‘Hermione!’ Harry said, gleeful. Ron grinned beside him. It was hard to distinguish anything too fully behind the flicker of the green flames, but she saw how mussed their hair was, how dark the bags were under their eyes. She thanked Merlin that their tired smiles were genuine.

‘It’s so good to see you both,’ she said, smiling back at them with too much affection. It was making her heart sink a little to know that a year of this would come for them – a year apart, and a year alone. ‘It’s so good to hear you.’

‘You have no idea what it’s like to see you too, Hermione,’ Ron said. He looked a little older, a little sharper around the edges. Hermione wondered if he’d grown since she saw them in August before they headed off to the Ministry.

They sat in comfortable quiet for a while, just staring at each other, drinking in their appearances, eyes darting around one another’s faces. Summer holidays had been painful while apart in the past years, but this was something else. At least the stifling summers came with the promise of a reunion when it ended.

‘So,’ Hermione said, moving so she was cross-legged, elbows on her knees, cheeks in her palms. She couldn’t get closer to the fire if she tried, and her face was already stinging with the heat. ‘How have you both been? How is Auror training? I want to know everything.’

And so they told her, launching into a tirade that Hermione couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of. They told her about their first arrest, the measuring of their Auror robes – the way they’d felt like it was the first year at Hogwarts again. They told her about the Death Eater trials they’d been sitting in on, the visits and statements they’d had to get from Azkaban, Dementors hissing at the swish of their robes along the cold floor.

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Ron had said. ‘Most of it’s pretty bleak. But it’s bloody amazing, too.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry agreed, nodding at Ron. ‘It sort of feels… like it’s real? Like everything we’ve done has just been pretend and building up to something, and now we’re actually there.’

‘Not there yet,’ she reminded them.

Harry’s expression was child-like and impatient and mildly endearing on a face that was thinning and sharpening and hardening. ‘Not yet, no,’ he sighed. ‘But if this is just our training for the next year, can you imagine what the real thing will be like?’

Ron grinned suddenly. ‘Hey, do you remember when we…’

And so it went. Hermione smiled as they chattered, filling words in for one another, voices rising in competition to remember every detail. She listened, and she found herself missing the camaraderie, the closeness, the comfort of another person. She wondered what it would be like to be with them, but the image was hazy, and the third person was murky and not quite her. Some things weren’t to be.

Finally the boys quietened – running out of stories or energy Hermione couldn’t tell. It was past midnight.

‘How’s the head thing going?’ Ron said.

Hermione rested her cheek on her propped-up knee. ‘The head thing is… okay.’

‘Just okay?’ Harry asked. He knew what the position had meant to her – they both did. It was all she used to talk about before trying to survive took precedence.

‘Yeah. I haven’t really had all that much to do other than hold office hours and meetings. Meetings about meetings about meetings.’

‘That doesn’t sound a lot of fun,’ Ron said, trying to sympathise. She knew he couldn’t think of anything worse than the kind of responsibility that Hermione strove for, but it was kind of him to try.

‘We’re only two weeks in,’ Hermione replied. ‘Things will pick up later in the term. Technically it would have been the Triwizard Tournament this year had things not…’

‘Been fucked up?’ Ron offered.

‘ _Gone to plan_ ,’ Hermione corrected. Harry and Ron grinned; it looked a little eerie through the green glow of the fire. ‘I imagine we’ll do something instead in the summer term, but I’m not sure what. I should probably start on that, actually…’

‘Maybe call a meeting?’ Harry suggested.

‘Oh, _hush_.’

Harry laughed. ‘No, but seriously. Pool your resources and you’ll get a greater output.’

‘Well don’t you sound all grown up,’ Hermione commented. ‘Using all your trigger words and what not.’ She paused. ‘Speaking of, I’ve been meaning to tell you both something.’

Their faces fell serious, and it took her breath away how grown up they looked – how old. How their lips were firm and straight, how their eyes were hard and so worryingly empty, open, vacant. How still they were. How devoted their attention was to her.

‘I’ve been offered to apply for an internship at the Ministry,’ she told them. ‘Under Kingsley.’

There was a moment of silence, and then they both rushed to speak at once.

‘That’s brilliant, Hermione!’ Ron exclaimed.

‘Hermione, that’s great!’ Harry said.

‘I’m so happy for you.’

‘We’re _really_ proud of you.’

And that last one was what she was waiting for. The one that made her toes curl and her face split into a grin, her skin tingly and warm.

‘Thank you,’ she told them, biting her teeth together to try and stop smiling.

‘What do you mean, though, by _offered to apply_?’ Harry asked. He took his glasses off. Hermione couldn’t see, but she imagined him rubbing the lenses with the corner of his shirt. She used to scold him for that, telling him, ‘That’s what magic is _for,_ Harry. They’re never going to get clean like _that_.’ And he’d just roll his eyes and continue wiping them with the fabric of his robes, because Merlin if he ever listened to her chiding.

Hermione shrugged. ‘I assume my name was put forward. Percy wrote the letters, Kingsley knows me, and I wouldn’t doubt if McGonagall had some say in who they wrote to at Hogwarts. We’ve got to fill in an application, and then have an interview if we’re accepted, and then we start around November, I think.’

‘You’ll get it,’ Ron said. He was utterly faithful – had utter faith in _her_. It was heartbreaking.

‘Who else was offered?’ Harry asked.

‘The only one I know of is Theodore. There could be others.’

‘Nott?’ Ron asked. His tone was sharp.

‘Yes, Ron,’ she said, voice steady and even.

He cleared his throat, scratching the back of his head. ‘It’s just… He’s an odd candidate.’

Hermione knew what he meant. And it wasn’t that he was an ‘odd candidate’. ‘He’s head boy, Ron,’ she told him. ‘His grades are exceptional, too. And… he’s never been cruel.’

‘You’re going to say ‘he’s not like other boys’ now, aren’t you?’ Ron said. There was a twinge of humour in his words, but something else too, darker, lying buried underneath that playful wit. Hermione felt a pang in her chest. She knew what it was.

‘Hardly,’ she said, trying to ignore it. Harry glanced at Ron as he put his glasses back on. ‘I just think that it’s very understandable that he was considered.’ Hermione paused. ‘If I’m being dreadfully honest, it’s a surprise Malfoy wasn’t offered a position, too, though I suppose it’s for the same reason that someone like Ernie Macmillan wasn’t owled…’

Ron blinked at her. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘I’m very serious.’

He let out a sound, somewhere between exasperation and horror. ‘Look what’s happening to her, Harry!’ he cried. ‘Next time we see her she’ll be sitting there in a bloody green tie or something!’

‘Oh, Ron, stop being so dramatic,’ she chided, but she couldn’t help the smile that crept onto her face. It mirrored the one Harry was trying to suppress.

‘I think Hermione can hold her own,’ Harry said calmly. He patted Ron on the shoulder.

Ron sighed. ‘We miss you, Hermione.’

Harry nodded, looking somewhere that wasn’t at her.

Hermione bit into her cheek, looking somewhere that wasn’t at them. ‘I miss you too,’ she said, and her voice was thick and a little off pitch, and the lump in her throat wasn’t getting any damned smaller. ‘Really, really miss you.’

She hunched over, legs crossed, palms digging into her eyes hard enough that she could feel them reddening.

‘Look at us,’ Harry said, laughing, crying, fingers reaching beneath his glasses to pooling green eyes. ‘I must be tired. Pathetic.’

‘Nah,’ Ron said. His eyes were clear and shining. ‘I think we’re pretty brilliant.’

‘Me too,’ Hermione said. ‘Pretty bloody brilliant.’


	4. Chapter 4

Time passed quickly, lost between the lines of essays and the hastily eaten breakfasts. Absent in the nightmare sleep and the silent ticking of meeting minutes. October 1st approached, hurtling at full-speed, outside of that misplaced time. Almost three weeks had just _gone_. Third year students were venturing to Hogsmeade for the first time, fifth years were receiving their first awful grades from their mock-OWL essays, and the eighth years were still a little lost, but they were getting there.

On the evening of the 28th, a group of huddled boys and girls flew about on sticks, beaten by the wind and the rain and the lightning that was readying itself to strike, and tried to throw balls through too-high goalposts and spot a golden flying ball the size of a walnut that was, for the most part, invisible.

‘This is fucking insane, Draco!’ Blaise Zabini called over the howling of the wind.

‘Like there isn’t a chance we could play in this weather against a house!’ Draco shouted back.

‘There _isn’t_ , you twat! They’d have called it off!’

Draco rubbed the rain away from his goggles, white hair slicked to his face, and watched as the others fought against the wind. Half the team were so slight that any movement was futile, their muscles screaming with the effort to hold on, eyes streaming from the pain and the tiredness and the elements. There was no enjoyment in this, and little end in sight.

Everything was deafening, the not-too-distant thunder, the pelting of the rain that sounded like the running of giants, the snap of wood creaking and trees breaking. The clouds were like waves above them, rolling too fast in some storm-like mockery of the sea. They couldn’t drown the Slytherin team, but they could throw them to the ground until their bones broke like the bristles on the ends of their broomsticks, faces bloody and black without the light of any moon.

And yet.

‘Just ten more minutes, Zabini,’ Draco asked his deputy, not really asking.

Even through the dark, through the steam of the glass over his eyes, Blaise saw that familiar burning. Molten silver and orbs of lead. He needed to say no; he needed to control whatever urge this was driving Draco to a quiet, inward, _burning_ insanity.

And yet.

‘Seven. You’ve got seven minutes, and then we go back inside – we go to _bed_. You won’t have any players left after this.’

‘It’ll be worth it,’ Draco said, half-grinning, launching himself back into the sky. He was almost boyish, and it struck Blaise that he could ever look like such a thing.

 

* * *

 

 

On the evening of the 28th, a young woman launched herself down the grounds of the castle, feet skidding, mud up the backs of her legs, hair matted with rain that caught in her eyelashes like spiders’ webs and ran down her face like tears. Her breath was laboured, too-thin limbs flailing, chest heaving, trying not to fall down on the ground and let it swallow her every time the lightning struck, a flash so bright she saw stars against her eyelids and saw a ghost of a mad, manic, lunatic grin of rotting teeth.

She was moments from the pitch. She could see the forms darting, so fast, black and billowing, but their movements were jerky and so far from that fluid urgency she’d watched over the years. It looked wrong and Hermione felt the bile rising in her throat.

‘ _MALFOY_!’ she screamed. But her voice was lost, snatched away by the wind that shrieked, and his name was just another element. ‘ _MALFOY_!’

She saw the blur of darkness come from nowhere, so fast it left an empty silhouette in the rain, and she saw it happening before they even began to fall, before the Bludger smashed into their face.

For a moment it was like they were flying, just held there in the wind, in limbo, and then they were in free-fall, just a streak of black. The others dived to follow, hands outstretched, but they weren’t fast enough, darting after like ravens swooping in on prey.

Her wand darted out, just a flash of light lost in the clouds, words missing. She felt it first, like a punch to the stomach, the impact from a speeding car. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Like she could hold a human up with the force at which they were falling. She saw them jerk, slow a little, and Hermione staggered as they hit the ground like a rag doll.

Black cloaks swarmed around as she ran over, knees buckling underneath her with each bruising step; her feet thudded on the sodden ground hard enough to send shocks up her calves.

 _‘Out of the way!_ Move the _hell_ out of the way!’

Most of the Slytherins stepped back, as if they couldn’t help it, as if they could only watch and follow orders that whispered in the backs of their minds. Hands limp by their sides, brooms abandoned in a pile off to the side of the form that lay on the floor.

She tore off the Quidditch padding, ripped open the shirt. Their chest was so hot beneath her hand, but the heart was beating fast like a rabbit, mad and wild with panic. She couldn’t help but let her eyes move to their face, mangled and bloody, cheekbone shattered so it fell inwards, nose twisted, an eye, red and roaming, lips moving soundlessly. One of his legs was at an odd angle, and she thought she saw of flash of white that could have been bone.

Hermione put her hands on his leg, and she twisted.

She heard a scream behind her as the boy’s back arched upwards in a sharp jerk, jack-knifed, mouth agape, and then he fell back down, still. His eyes were closed. Hermione couldn’t tell what was rain, what were tears, but the water began to wash away the blood a little. She ripped apart his shirt where it lay in tatters, and wrapped it around his leg in tight knots.

She looked up then, saw Malfoy looking down. He just stared. Blaise was throwing up somewhere behind him.

Voice hoarse, barely loud enough: ‘You need to help me, Malfoy. We need to get him to the Hospital Wing _now_.’

 

* * *

 

 

They flew across the grounds, through the castle halls, barely inches of the ground, but far faster than she could have run. She couldn’t have run at all, not carrying the body of a fourteen-year-old-boy, Malfoy's hands bunched tight in her jumper so she didn't fall off.

They almost spilled across the floor as they flew through the doors of the Hospital Wing, Hermione stumbling, struggling to get him on a bed as Malfoy shouted for Pomfrey. The nurse arrived in seconds from the office-cum-apartment, an assistant in tow.

She took one look at the boy’s face, the blood seeping through his clothing, the white cloth around his leg, glanced at Malfoy and Hermione, and said, ‘Leave us.’

A white curtain moved around the bed as they backed away with slow, uncertain steps.

Hermione was shaking as she slumped in the corridor, legs outstretched as she put her head against the stone wall. Her uniform was sodden and filthy with mud. Her hands were red with blood, buried deep under the nails.

She rolled her head from side to side, still shaking, still terrified, adrenaline making her want to throw up. Eyes closed, she whispered, ‘You _idiot_. You absolute _idiot_.’

She didn’t know if he was still there, but then she heard the sound of cloth against stone, not too far away, but far enough.

‘You knew what would happen,’ he said. He didn’t try to mask the fear in his voice – maybe he couldn’t. Maybe that was only a surface glimpse.

‘Luna,’ Hermione said, swallowing. ‘I was in the library – she’d had a dream. Just that face. I didn’t know who it was. I knew you practiced on Mondays.’ She shook her head again. ‘You idiot. What the hell were you _thinking_?’ Anger was taking precedence now. ‘Where’s your sense of responsibility, Malfoy? Why have you got to be so damned _stupid_ sometimes? People get _hurt_.’

‘I didn’t know this would happen.’

She let out a humourless sound that was nothing close to a laugh. ‘You didn’t think that when the weather was screaming at you to leave you shouldn’t, I don’t know, _leave_?’

‘He’ll be okay.’ His words were a question, even if they didn’t sound like one.

‘His cheekbone will need restructuring. Nose resetting. Broken ribs, burst eye vessels, broken leg. Fractured arm.’ She rolled her head to the side, opened her eyes to look at him. He looked… not as remorseful as he should, but she thought he’d always had an issue with that. ‘Yeah, he’ll be okay. I’ve seen worse.’

Malfoy looked at her like he didn’t doubt her, but his face was so blank, eyes so bright; she was hanging off the sentiment in his words, and knew half of it was missing even when she heard it.

‘I can’t let this go, Malfoy,’ Hermione said quietly. She tasted blood in her mouth. ‘I have to mention this to McGonagall. You know that.’

He was quiet for so long, and she didn’t think he was going to reply.

‘I didn't mean to fuck everything up,’ he said.

There was a rawness to his words that shook, and still she wondered if he was lying. Still she was looking for something – anything – that let her know this was a façade, some sort of joke to him, some awful plea of sincerity that he twisted so she’d begin to put a sliver of faith in him. She’d known him too long.

Hermione sighed. ‘People don't normally mean to, Malfoy, but it's a very human experience.’

Blaise found them soon after, boots scuffing across the floor, and slid down next to Malfoy, knees up, arms across his knees, head on his arms. ‘Well?’ he muttered.

‘Granger said he’ll be okay.’

Blaise cracked an eye open and looked at the witch. Hermione didn’t look at him; she was counting the slabs of stone that she could see down the corridor flooring. ‘And we trust Granger’s word?’

‘That’s all I’ve got going for me at the moment,’ Malfoy said.

‘That’s sad.’

‘I know.’

Hermione rolled her eyes. And then she realised something. The boy’s face was familiar in that vague, ‘I think I passed you in the hallway once’ kind of way, but… ‘I don’t even know his name,’ she said.

‘Graham Pritchard,’ Blaise said. ‘Fourth year.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s all right. Good enough player. Don’t know much about him otherwise.’

‘I think he came to the manor for Christmas once,’ Malfoy said. ‘Perhaps three years ago.’

‘I thought he was half-blood?’ Blaise asked. Hermione’s stomach flipped strangely at the question, so casual. It was like she wasn’t there, like her blood wasn’t in her veins, like the boy’s blood wasn’t on her hands. She hadn’t thought to wash it off yet. The Hospital Wing had been a morgue only four months ago.

‘He is. His father’s in the Ministry. He works in accounts or something. He was helping my father with his… financial affairs.’

‘That soon?’

Malfoy nodded, looking at the floor. ‘We knew it was coming,’ he said. His legs were splayed out in front of him, fingers trailing the cold stone floor, fingernails making a scraping noise that made Hermione’s spine tingle. ‘He wanted to be prepared.’

It was endlessly fascinating to her how someone like Blaise still sat by his side and wasn’t ashamed to be his friend. How Pansy still put her hand on his shoulder after dinner, and Goyle followed him around with the uncertainty of a walking tree. He defected – his family defected. They were blood traitors. And yet Malfoy wasn’t an outcast, wasn’t a walking betrayal of everything his house stood for – everything his housemates’ families had been cast out and into Azkaban for. Maybe it was that Lucius and Narcissa both ended up there, still, despite everything, regardless of their sentence length. Maybe it was because if Malfoy’s family hadn’t switched sides, someone else’s would have, and they all wished they could do that now. Maybe it was because the loyalty ran far deeper than Hermione ever had wanted to acknowledge. Because _surely_ they couldn’t be capable of such loyal devotion.

They were all quiet for a while, and Hermione closed her eyes. She’d slept in worse places.

A door creaked open what felt like hours later, and the assistant’s blonde head peeked around the corner. Hermione straightened a little, but she couldn’t bring herself to stand. Malfoy and Blaise were asleep, heads bowed, light and dark. They were so still, oddly innocent, and when they were asleep, eyes closed, mouths not spewing hate… they were sort of beautiful to look at. They almost weren’t real.

‘You can’t see him,’ the girl whispered. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. ‘But he’s stable. Pomfrey said you’ll need to come back tomorrow and make a statement with the headmistress. Go to bed for now, though.’ She nodded at the boys – men. ‘I think you could all do with it.’

She shut the door again quietly, before Hermione could do anything other than blink and nod with a slight jerk of her head. Her bones protested and Hermione groaned as she got to her feet. She walked over to Malfoy and Blaise, nudged their boots with her foot. She didn’t dare breathe in too deeply; she knew they would all smell foul, of damp clothes and dry sweat, herself included.

They woke with surprising grogginess. It wasn’t the jerk and the quick search of the wand that Hermione was so used to, hand already searching beneath the pillow before her eyes had adjusted in the darkness. They were so slow, and Hermione couldn’t imagine how they would have fared if their souls had switched places.

‘Go to bed,’ she told them. ‘Shower. He’s stable. You’ll need to come back in the morning.’

They looked at her a little blankly, and she rolled her eyes, tiredness calling her to room and to bed before they could even get to their feet. For once she didn’t dream.

 

* * *

 

 

By seven o’clock the next morning, and after four hours of solid sleep, Hermione had showered, dressed, finished an essay due for that afternoon, and made her way to the Hospital Wing. Blaise, Malfoy, and Madame Pomfrey were already there. Professor McGonagall arrived not long after, Theodore in tow. He looked tired and unhappy to be there.

‘Well then. Good morning, students,’ the headmistress said.

They bade her good morning in return, standing in an awkward circle.

Graham was still asleep behind his curtain; Madame Pomfrey said he might wake up in the evening, but she couldn’t promise.

‘Who would like to begin?’ McGonagall asked.

The three of them exchanged glances.

Hermione cleared her throat. ‘I will, Professor,’ she said.

McGonagall nodded at her.

‘I was in the library last night working on my application,’ she began.

‘What time?’ McGonagall interrupted, quill poised over a parchment notebook.

It was a dull scratch as Hermione continued. ‘This was around… half-past ten, perhaps quarter-to eleven. I saw the weather through a window, and then remembered that the Slytherin team was still outside training. I know how… hard they’ve been practicing as of late, and I thought I should tell them to come in. It’s easy to get caught up in something and forget the dangers of what you’re doing.’ She didn’t miss how Malfoy’s eyes narrowed a touch, mouth set in a hard line, but he didn’t say anything. ‘There was a danger of someone getting hurt, so I went outside to the Quidditch pitch. I saw Graham getting hit by a stray Bludger as I arrived.

‘I tried to cast a Hover Charm… I’m not sure if that did more harm than good,’ Hermione admitted. ‘I noted that his leg was broken when I got there, so I tried to set it. Graham was still conscious, and then after that he wasn’t. Malfoy helped me bring him here, and then Blaise joined us soon after. We waited until Madame Pomfrey’s assistant told us he was going to be okay, and then I went to bed.’

‘And that’s everything, Miss Granger? No minor details you’ve opted to leave out?’

Hermione felt her jaw clench. ‘That’s everything, Professor. I don’t gain anything from lying.’

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips. _But you don’t gain anything from telling the truth, either,_ her face said. It was a little upsetting to know that her faith was lacking a little that morning.

‘I can concur with Granger, Professor,’ Malfoy said, straightening. ‘It happened as she told it.’

‘Thank you, Mr Malfoy.’ McGonagall didn’t sound very grateful, and Hermione had to imagine what it looked like, what it must _be_ like for her to have to send a letter to Graham’s parents in the first month of school. ‘Quidditch injury’ wasn’t always a capable excuse. ‘Now tell me what on earth you thought you were doing training out in a storm,’ she said, ‘because that is what I am _most_ interested to know, Mr Malfoy.’

Malfoy spoke, tone even, eyes not lowering once. ‘We went out at nine. It was a little windy, but the weather was otherwise fine for training. It started raining, and I said if anyone wanted to go in they could. No one did. The wind picked up and it began to thunder within a few minutes. Zabini said—’

‘I asked if we could stay out for ten more minutes,’ Blaise interrupted. Malfoy looked at him in a way that could mean absolutely nothing or entirely everything. ‘Draco said it wasn’t safe to continue, but I argued with him and ignored his decision. I made the team continue to practise. Pritchard got hit in those ten minute. It was an accident. No one could see the Bludger with the weather, but it was my fault that he was out there, and that he got injured.’

 _I didn’t mean to fuck everything up_. Hermione knew how badly Malfoy wanted to win that year. But McGonagall didn’t – she’d heard nothing about the request for a team expansion coming from him, because Hermione had promised she wouldn’t. The headmistress was looking at them each in turn, looking for what Hermione couldn’t tell. She felt the barriers sliding upwards in her mind, high and solid and impenetrable.

‘Mr Nott?’ she asked, turning to the head boy.

He’d been still and impassive; his only movements were the sliding of his dark eyes from person to person. They were resting on Malfoy.

‘It appears like they’re telling the truth,’ he admitted. ‘If Blaise wants to be responsible for this, then he can be.’

The headmistress nodded. It was strange for Hermione, not to have a say in this decision, to have to stand there and know that she was being questioned by an authority without any power of interference. Nothing had changed since she’d been at Hogwarts.

‘Mr Malfoy. The harm that came to Mr Pritchard has been quite extensive. His life was very nearly at risk. Your attitude and complacency was not what I expected of you or from a Quidditch captain. The next time something like this happens, I expect you to stand up to your peers for what is right, regardless of your personal friendships or ties.’ She waited for Malfoy to nod, and then continued. ‘Mr Zabini, you should have known far better, and acted with far more responsibility. You were reckless and idiotic. I did not expect such behaviour from you, either. No game is worth the danger that Mr Pritchard faced. I am deeply disappointed in the both of you.’

Blaise nodded. ‘My apologies, Professor. I will accept any punishment that you see fit.’

McGonagall raised a brow, high. ‘Expulsion?’ she said.

The shocked silence lasted for all of five seconds, and then Hermione sputtered. ‘Professor, that’s… Don’t you think that’s a little extensive?’

‘He put a child’s life at risk, Miss Granger,’ McGonagall said coolly, looking at the young witch. ‘Mr Zabini acted carelessly and without thought. If Mr Pritchard had died, would you be protesting then?’

Hermione just stared. What was happening?

‘I have to agree with Hermione, Professor,’ Nott cut in. ‘Blaise was… idiotic. But this was an accident. He didn’t mean for this to happen. I know I’m biased being his friend, but I know what it means to be able to finish one’s education. To end that chance for Blaise now… I think that’s a bit cruel. Headmistress.’

‘Mr Malfoy?’ McGonagall then said. ‘Have you nothing to say?’

Malfoy’s face was expressionless. The shock at Blaise’s potential expulsion passed his face like a lightning bolt, and then vanished.

Hermione saw a muscle waver in his jaw, and he said, ‘It was me, Professor.’

 ‘Draco—’

‘I was the one who made the team continue,’ Malfoy continued, drowning out any protest Blaise could have made. ‘I put Pritchard at risk. Expel me, not Zabini. He didn’t do anything.’

 ‘Very well.’

‘Professor!’ Hermione cried. ‘I… I urge you to reconsider. As if far worse hasn’t happened in this school and students been punished with far less than an expulsion. As if this school hasn’t seen enough unhappiness and ostracising this year.’ She swallowed. ‘I thought… I thought you wanted to give everyone a _chance_.’

‘You’re defending his actions, Miss Granger?’

She nodded, firmly, head tilted upwards. ‘I am. And as head girl I ask you to reconsider.’

The headmistress stared at her. ‘It’s not the head girl that I am interested in hearing from. It is Hermione Granger.’

‘Do I only get to be one thing now?.’

Early morning sun shone through the tall windows of the infirmary, chasing away the lengthy shadows, and the room was full of dazzling white for a few moments. It settled to a muted paleness, skies blue outside, windows still decorated with raindrops from the night’s storm.

When Hermione blinked away from the sun’s rays, she noted that the headmistress was smiling. She was so confused.

‘Thank you, Miss Granger,’ McGonagall said. Her voice was so much softer, her face relaxed, eyes down at the corners in a way that wasn’t anything close to sadness. ‘That’s enough for this morning – I have heard and seen what I was hoping for. I should apologise. I hoped to see how the three of you reacted. It has been some time since I heard the cries of a Gryffindor defending a Slytherin, or vice versa. I am happy to see that the school is at last seeing some progress.’

‘I don’t… I don’t understand,’ Hermione said, shaking her head in quick bursts, as if she could shake her convoluted thoughts free.

‘Professor McGonagall has been toying with us,’ Malfoy said, voice low and flat. He was not confused. ‘She wanted to see how you reacted to mine or Zabini’s expulsion.’

‘You didn’t jump at the chance to get rid of them,’ Nott added mildly. He didn’t look like anything.

‘You knew about this?’ Hermione asked him.

‘No. I guessed halfway through the professor’s questioning. It seemed out-of-character.’

‘I was waiting for you to catch on, Miss Granger,’ McGonagall said.

Hermione’s mouth was agape. ‘With… all due respect, Professor. This isn’t something I expected of you.’

‘No, it’s not. I was intrigued. Forgive me, Miss Granger.’ She turned to Malfoy and Blaise. ‘Now,’ she said, that one word already so stern. ‘I did mean what I said before. To both of you. Though I suppose it applies in different ways, now. Between now and the first match of the House Quidditch, I expect each of you to come to me to collect the keys to the Quidditch shed; that autonomy will be reinstated after the first game.’ Malfoy scowled a little, but he said nothing. ‘You will also have twenty points deducted from Slytherin, and for the remaining two weeks you will serve detention with Professor Tenrin. I believe he could still use some assistance unpacking his classroom, and marking preliminary first year essays. You are both familiar with the Defence classes for it not to be an issue.’ She looked over the rim of her glasses at them. ‘Be thankful I have not rescinded your weekend privileges.’

‘Yes, Professor,’ Blaise said; he seemed somewhat windswept, eyes too wide and words too hurried. ‘That sounds… a little more fair.’

Malfoy only nodded.

McGonagall looked at the time from a watch in her packet, a small silver thing that looked delicate and ancient.

‘Breakfast will begin in ten minutes,’ she said. ‘I suspect you are all hungry, so I will bid you a good morning. Have a good day.’

She left after a brief word with Madame Pomfrey, and then Hermione wasn’t sure what to do with herself. She felt sick and lightheaded – that anger, the burst of outrage and the urge to fight… It was not something she liked to feel on an empty stomach; it was not something she liked to feel at all.

‘This school is never dull,’ Nott remarked, somewhat amused.

‘On the contrary,’ Malfoy muttered. ‘It grows more tiresome every fucking day.’

And for once, Hermione was almost inclined to agree with him.

 

* * *

 

 

‘There’s nothing to do but send it now,’ Luna told her, voice light as breath. ‘This is the easy bit.’

Hermione nodded, shaking a little in the cold. The Owlery stank of bird shit and mould, an open window to the wind, whistling bitterly though the alcoves. The letter was burning a hole in her pocket, and still she stood there, arms around herself, shivering.

‘I think it’s quite wonderful what you are doing, Hermione,’ Luna said. Her words were a small push of encouragement, but Hermione needed Ron or Harry to just snatch the letter from her and throw an owl from its post, out through the window, down to London.

‘Thanks, Luna,’ Hermione said, smiling hesitantly, wind whipping about her face, her hair moving wildly, her cheeks feeling like they were burning red from the cold. The coming winter weather was not going to be kind.

After a while longer of standing there, thoughts warring, Hermione pulled the envelope from her pocket, along with the original offer of application.

‘I’ve got the address right, haven’t I?’ she asked.

Luna peered over her shoulder to look at the matching addresses. ‘That does seem to be the case,’ she said. ‘Which owl would you like to use?’

‘Oh, don’t ask me that,’ Hermione worried. ‘I haven’t the slightest. Whichever one looks fast.’

‘They’re owls bred for wizards and witches, Hermione. I expect they could all do the job..’

Hermione threw her hands up. ‘You choose. I take no responsibility in this.’

‘That’s very un-Gryffindor of you, Hermione,’ Luna remarked, but there was a curve to her lips, and a slight sparkle to her eye. It was a good thing to see.

She heard steps coming up through the Owlery, and moved away from the staircase as she saw a familiar shock of blond hair.

He barely spared a glance at her or Luna as he strolled through the place. ‘Granger,’ he said.

‘Malfoy.’

Luna just nodded in his direction, with a hesitance and a slight wideness to her already-intense eyes. Suddenly, she looked like a child, staring at a shadow in the corner of the room, frozen in their bed. And then it passed, and she looked like Luna again, mystical, weird and wonderful Luna, with ever-wide eyes and an eagerness in her expression. Hermione wondered what the world looked like to her; how wonderful it must seem.

‘Has Theodore sent his application?’ Hermione asked Malfoy.

He was stroking a familiar looking eagle-owl, dark as twilight and twice the size of its neighbours. Of course that was his. Malfoy pulled a biscuit from his pocket and offered it to the bird. Hermione almost feared for his fingers, but the owl tilted its head to the side and carefully took the biscuit in its beak with a slow, careful movement. It was weirdly gentle.

Malfoy wiped his hands against his trousers. ‘Perhaps. I wouldn’t know.’ He turned around and looked at the envelope in Hermione’s hand. ‘Sending yours off?’

She nodded. ‘I should have done it yesterday, but I was a little… preoccupied with other things.’

‘Indeed.’

‘How is detention going?’ she asked lightly.

‘It’s school detention. And I’m an eighteen-year-old. It’s as expected.’

Hermione bit back a smile. It was not unpleasant to toy with him, and it was not even unpleasant to talk to him. She found it somewhat sad that this couldn’t have always been the case; he was smart enough and dreadfully so that their conversation might _once_ have been enlightening.

‘I hope that Graham Pritchard is all right,’ Luna said hesitantly.

Malfoy’s gaze swung to her, and Hermione almost wanted to step in front of her. Luna had been in that dungeon with Dean, too. And Malfoy still reeked of danger. It was like darkness, and night, and acid in one. Like if it touched you you’d burn and your bones wouldn’t last. But the smugness was missing, the aristocratic curl of his lip was absent. Hermione had never feared him when he looked like that, like an arrogant child. But his composure and the way he held himself and the look in his eyes was different now, and she felt the hair rise on the back of her neck when she looked at him. But then. She knew it wasn’t unlikely he felt that when he looked at her, and that is what made her stand there, and talk to him, and reminisce about what might have been.

‘He woke up this morning. He should be walking by tomorrow.’

‘I’m glad,’ Luna said. Hermione doubted she knew the boy, but her concern for others wasn’t some exclusive commodity she only shared with her friends.

Malfoy’s bird nipped at the sleeve of his elbow, and he passed it another biscuit.

‘Hermione,’ Luna said quietly. ‘I can’t…’

‘It’s fine,’ she said. She touched the girl on the shoulder. ‘I’ll see you later.’

She waited for Luna’s light footsteps to quiet as she slipped down the winding stairs. Hermione stepped forward. ‘Are you using your owl?’ she asked Malfoy, nodding at the bird as it swallowed the piece whole.

‘No. Why?’

Hermione held up her letter. ‘I’ve got post to send.’

‘I might need her tomorrow.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Might?’

He nodded. ‘Anything could come up. I might need to urgently contact someone.’

‘Might.’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Malfoy.’

‘Granger.’

‘Please could I borrow your owl?’

 ‘You could have said that to begin with.’

‘Are you saying yes?’

‘I haven’t decided.’

‘Malfoy, please. This is very important to me.’

He gave her a meaningful look, sardonic. ‘You know that’s not much of a bargaining chip, especially from you. I can’t _do_ anything with your please and thank yous.’

Hermione folded her arms across her chest. ‘What do you want this time?’

‘This time?’ he said, mirroring her movements, leaning against a wall. He seemed unaffected by the dirt. ‘I didn’t realise you were such a slave to my desires.’

‘Don’t be obtuse. What do you want?’

There was the hint of a smile across his mouth, and his eyes were bright. He was enjoying this.

‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘Will you accept an IOU?’

‘Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On what exactly you’ll owe me.’

‘Well it’s only going to be as important as someone lending someone a bird to deliver a letter. Let’s be reasonable.’

‘This bird is _very_ important to me. She belonged to my father.’

 _It can’t mean much to anyone else, then,_ she almost said, but she knew the way his eyes would harden, the way his mouth would set, and he’d walk down those steps and not once look back.

Eventually, Hermione sighed. ‘You know what, I’ll use another one. It might just be a little late.’

‘Or you could send it on time and not be known for poor time management skills.’

Hermione threw him a scornful look.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘An IOU. You get three chances to decline my request.’

‘Deal.’

‘Oh, no,’ he said. He was grinning now, a set of white teeth so wide her parents would have marveled. ‘I don’t do deals. I do _arrangements_.’

‘You’re horrid. You know that, don’t you?’

‘It keeps me up at night.’ He turned around to unfasten the owl from its perch, her leg tied with a piece of rope. Hermione looked at the length of those talons, wondered why the owl didn’t just snap what was effectively a piece of string, and then remembered she was Lucius’. No wonder she was so well-behaved. Hermione was surprised the bird still had all its feathers.

Hermione rolled the envelope up carefully into a cylinder, and placed it in Malfoy’s pale, waiting hand. He took it wordlessly and wrapped it in a piece of string that he fastened to the bird’s foot. She hopped onto his wrist with a movement that made her seem lighter than her size suggested, and stared at him, orange gaze unsettling.

‘I want you to go to the Ministry of Magic,’ Malfoy told her.

The bird squawked, a brittle, shrieking sound.

‘No, I know. Rotten place, isn’t it? But alas.’

Hermione snorted at the exchange, and Malfoy gave her another biscuit and a scratch down her back that made her ruffle her feathers contentedly.

‘More where that came from,’ he told her. He walked over to the nearest large, open arch of the Owlery, a too-high, too-bleak balcony. ‘Now shoo.’

The bird paused a moment, head tilted, and then she seemed to fall from Malfoy’s outstretched arm, down the high tower of the Owlery, dropping like it was both a dead weight and weightless at the same time. Hermione counted to five, and then took a sharp intake of breath as it soared upwards, barely metres from the balcony. She hurried over to the alcove, eager to watch her flight, to know she wouldn’t fail like a rocket on its miscalculated launch.

Her wings were wider than Hermione was tall, wickedly dark against the pale backdrop of the Scottish highlands. The green grass of the hills was muted, trees paling. The snow would be here soon. Hermione watched her fly until she was a speck on the landscape, gaining so much speed that within seconds it was a blur, and she couldn’t see it anymore. What a thing to possess such a creature.

She looked at Malfoy. He was looking down at her.

‘Thanks,’ she said, and he shrugged in response.

‘I owe you for yesterday,’ he said, so quiet she thought she imagined it. ‘I don’t like feeling indebted. And my family owes you.’

Not this, please not this.

‘You don’t owe anyone anything. You’re Malfoys.’

He was just _looking_ at her, so carefully, like she’d break. ‘Precisely.’

She looked away. ‘I don’t want to talk about this. Not to you.’

He shrugged again, and he looked away too, shoving his hands in his pockets. ‘What will you do if you don’t get it?’

‘The internship?’ she asked. He nodded. ‘Shed a tear. Move on. It isn’t the be-all-end-all.’ She laughed slightly, a dry, hollow sound. ‘Might do me some good to fail at something for once.’

‘I’m not sure that head of yours would take it,’ he said dryly.

She made a sound of agreement. ‘It _is_ rather large.’

‘Not always a bad thing.’

She glanced at him, just for a second. ‘Is that a compliment?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s not really my _thing_.’

They both fell quiet, and she wasn’t sure what she was doing. Standing next to him. She had writhed on his polished floorboards of his dining room. He ate breakfast in that room, and his mother probably read the newspaper. For a moment, while she had lain there, their eyes had meant, and he looked away first. If she could scream anything, it would have been ‘ _coward’_ , but her throat had been hoarse, and her mouth had been bloody.

So she had bled on his floor, and he had stood there and averted his eyes, and now they stood next to each other like they were equals. Like they were friends. Hermione closed her eyes, and she heard him breathe in deeply. It was like they’d realised the same thing at the same time.

‘I wish I didn’t have to hate you,’ she told him. She wasn’t sure why she told him. ‘I think it would have been easy not to.’

He leaned against the railing. ‘I’m a pretty awful person, Granger. I don’t think it would have been easy at all.’

‘You’re much harder on yourself.’

‘I had a year of him in my house. And then spent a summer in Azkaban waiting to be tried. Makes a person reflect.’

‘I’m not sure which one of those is worse.’

He shrugged. ‘Living in a house or sitting in a fucking cell with crazy people is not as amusing as it sounds. It’s actually just really fucking depressing. So.’

‘Both were pretty much the same.’

‘Pretty much, yes.

Hermione frowned. She was curious. ‘Why didn't you say you were under the Imperius curse like the other Death Eaters? I’ve always wondered that.’

Malfoy snorted. ‘What, then be given Veritaserum and handed to the dementors for lying under oath? The Wizengamot were looking for any reason to get rid of us. No thanks, Granger.’ He sighed. ‘Besides, a year of Hogwarts and a three-year surveillance is not the worst I could have been dealt.’ His mouth dipped at the corner. ‘ _He who has not a good memory should never take upon himself the trade of lying.’_

‘Since when did you have a bad memory?’ _And since when were you unable to lie?_

‘Since my classmates were tutored in my dining room and I began to lose track of whose body hung over my dining table each morning.’

Her stomach sank a little. ‘Stop looking for pity.’

This made him laugh. Really laugh, a stomach-deep, building-up kind of laugh. It was so awful; so pure. ‘Believe me, Granger. That’s the _last_ thing I’m looking for.’

She didn’t know how much she believed that. ‘I should be going.’

‘We both should,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘Arithmancy started about ten minutes ago.’

‘ _What_?!’ she gasped, brown eyes so wide, mouth gaping. She ran.

Malfoy’s laugh followed her down the stairwell, hitting off the walls, echoing with her footprints down the winding steps, and it followed her as she ran across the grounds, so loud in the cool, still air. She wondered if this was how it would have ended: her chest pounding, head full of mist, and that laughter. Maybe if his heart had been a little darker, if his hand hadn’t wavered, if his voice hadn’t said _fear_. Maybe her head would have dashed across the rocks; maybe she would have seen a flash of green light and just _faded_ with the memory of his mouth, lips stretched wide over his teeth, silver eyes shining. Though the sound didn’t stop ringing until her books were on her desk and Vector had dismissed her tardiness, and her hands didn’t stop shaking well after she’d begun writing her notes, sometimes Hermione was thankful that Malfoy wasn’t as wicked as they both often knew he could be.

 

* * *

 

The ground was crisp outside in the mornings, and cold again in the evening, just as the stars peered out. Leaves littered the ground, crunching under foot, and the skies were an endless, brilliant pink. Students wandered about the classrooms, breath in cloudy bursts, shirt sleeves rolled down, jumpers worn with thumbs hooked through holes in the hems. Footsteps echoed on the cold stone floors, and jugs filled with hot chocolate appeared at breakfast and dinner, thick and sweet enough to make teeth ache.

Nights darkened, and Hermione grew used to lighting her wand as she filled in for evening patrols, or carrying an old lantern in the library, eyes strained and tired. Two weeks passed, and still no letter. Malfoy’s eagle-owl sat on her perch when she went to check on her; she stared at Hermione as she stared at the owl, its orange stare so vivid, and let out a small squawk. Hermione gave her a treat from the small jar in the centre of the Owlery, and left with a sigh as she ruffled her feathers. Theodore had heard nothing, either; for once, she was not eager to blame Malfoy.  

What she had received was a letter from Harry and Ron. They were coming to Hogsmeade the weekend before Halloween, and would she like to meet? The letter was redundant; they could have arrived that morning and she would skip her lessons just to spend the day with them. Maybe.

The tone of the letter was tired and the parchment felt heavy and the writing was more illegible than usual. Ron scribbled a hello and a few kisses in the corner, but he was absent from its contents. Hermione covered the corner with her hand and a felt that sinking, fading feeling, biting her lip to stop it from trembling.

She read it, knowing how Harry felt, feeling what he felt, and wondered if this was her life now. Was this a temporary feeling of being stuck in a castle in the Scottish highlands, or was it the drop in adrenaline, fight-or-flight, and absent need to be ready to run when you opened your eyes? Her magic felt ridiculous and timid, and she found herself staring at chalk-filled boards during lessons and seeing only shapes and lines.

But she didn’t know the name for this sort of madness; she couldn’t research it and ask hypothetical questions to sceptical teachers. She was lacking knowledge that described who she _was_ , lacking any book or guide or sample essays, and the absence of identity was killing her.

But she was Hermione Granger, witch extraordinaire, one third of the Golden Trio, Head Girl, smartest witch of her age, war hero, warrior. And so she kept her head high, smiled in the corridors, took suggestions with an open face in meetings, handed in her essays on time, and tried not to focus on the black hole inside of her that was digging itself wider and wider with each tick of the clock and pink, violet, magenta sunset-sunrise.

 

* * *

 

 

It was during one of those nights, when Hermione was covering another of Ginny’s patrols while she was training with the Harpies, that she stumbled upon something she should not have. For once, ‘stumbled upon’ had never been more accurate. It was not the awkward apology she, Harry, and Ron had given when they got caught finding the very thing they were looking for. A spell in the wrong part of the library. A three-headed dog.

This time, it was accidental. This time, she had been looking for one thing and found quite another. Though she had been looking for students out of bed and found exactly that, it was not in the way she had expected.

She heard sounds first, murmurs. She couldn’t help that the first thing she felt was her heart spiking.

Excitement, a touch of fear. _What if?_ it said. _What will I find?_

It was a classroom on the third floor off the Serpentine Corridor. The classroom where Lupin used to teach Defence; where Barty Crouch Jr. showed them what he should not have; where Umbridge paraded in front of them in pink and spoke in a voice that made Hermione see red.

‘At least use a lesser known classroom,’ she mumbled to herself, the sound of her voice enough to calm her heart a little as she moved closer, could make out the sound a little more.

They were girls’ voices, soft and low, pausing for long silences that made Hermione frown. And then she heard a cry.

Without thinking she had her wand out, and the door was open, and she tried to make out everything that was unfolding in the room in front of her.

There was skin, dark and light, the hotness of mixed breaths, and a hasty scramble of clothes. The curve of a waist, and light from Hermione’s wand that fell on bodies.

Even in the darkness Hermione recognised Pansy and Daphne immediately.

‘Oh,’ Hermione said, mind like static. Didn’t know what else to say. She drove her too-wide eyes down to the floor, where their shoes lay overturned and their underwear was scattered, and stepped backwards. ‘Shit, I’m – I’m so sorry,’ she forced out, stumbling backwards as she shut the door. Her heart was fluttering in hot embarrassment, and she stared at the door for too long before leaving, and her cheeks didn’t cool until she reached the common room.

In hindsight, she shouldn’t have apologized. Should have turned her back, and told them to dress, and deducted points from their house for being out of bed after curfew and for behaving inappropriately in a classroom – on the _desk_ – where Professor Thenrin took their Defence classes every day. Didn’t they each have a bedroom? Did they have to seek the thrill of hard surfaces and darkness where nothing was soft and at any moment there was the risk of discovery?

 _My questions answer themselves,_ Hermione thought. Because she knew, though it was not the same, that part of the thrill of sneaking around with Harry and Ron as they broke rules and wandered corridors after lights-out was that they might be caught.

So while in hindsight she should have done something, she knew that her position came with the use of discretion, and a necessary empathy, and an understanding that students sometimes did things because they were searching for it deep within some cavernous, lonely part of themselves, and she could not forsake them that.

She didn’t know why, but she waited for Pansy to come back. She felt like… Maybe like she had to apologise. Maybe had to explain herself. Maybe she had to say that it was okay, and she wouldn’t say anything. Maybe, hilariously, that Pansy could trust her.

When Pansy let the portrait close behind her, it was past midnight. Her eyes fell immediately on Hermione, who sat on one of the sofas working on an essay but not really working, and she did not look surprised. Her sigh was heavy as she walked over, movements slow and jerky like she was being pulled by something and wanted to do nothing but walk in exactly the opposite direction she was headed. Daphne, walking in behind her, did not look at her as she went to the girls’ corridor, and Hermione made an effort not to look at her either.

Pansy fell into the armchair, and ran a hand through her dark hair, black and gossamer. Her expression was not as explicit as Hermione had always thought she was, face usually pulled into petulance and snobbery and snideness. Like everyone, which Hermione could not stop noticing, she seemed older, beyond the version of herself that she had been not so many months ago.

‘Look, Granger…’ she began.

‘I won’t tell anyone, Pansy.’

Hand through her hair again. Hermione supposed it was typical that Pansy’s tell was a sign of vanity, that her discomfort would be hidden behind a fixing of her appearance. Not too much had changed.

‘She’s still upset about Astoria,’ Pansy said. ‘I was just trying to— We’re not—’

‘You don’t need to explain. To me. To anyone.’

Pansy was looking at her, not really looking, tongue pressed into her cheek. The air around her thrummed, and Hermione realised it was nervousness. Or fear. Pansy’s features were Middle Eastern, the tawny skin, the dark hair and brows, the hazel eyes that slipped lighter and darker with striking ease. Her fear, perhaps, was a legitimate thing that Hermione could not begin to understand.

‘Please don’t tell Draco.’

‘Draco?’ Hermione said, blinking. ‘Why would I even— Pansy, it’s not of my business what you do— _Who_ you’re involved with.’ She lowered her voice, tried to soften it. ‘And besides, I don’t think he’d even care.’

Pansy snorted, rolled her eyes. She leaned back in the chair, slouching low in the seat. When Malfoy sat there his spine was always straight with high breeding and hours of lessons correcting his posture as a child. Pansy slouched low now, because, unlike Malfoy, she couldn’t so easily stop her emotions from slipping into the way she held herself and presented herself to the world.

‘You really don’t know him at all, do you?’ she said. ‘The Malfoys are traditionalists in _every_ sense of the word.’

Hermione frowned. ‘But Theodore…’

‘Theo?’

‘Well. Yes. Isn’t he…?’

There was a shared, uncertain silence, and then Pansy’s eyes grew comically wide, usually hidden beneath her dark fringe. ‘Wow. _No_. I mean— No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m…’ But she broke off, shaking her head. ‘Look, if he is or isn’t – if he’s neither of those things – then it’s none of your concern.’

‘And you’re none of mine. I understand.’ Hermione drew in a deep breath. ‘And I know you think Malfoy wouldn’t be… understanding. But I really don’t think you should be worried. I think he _would_. Understand, that is.’

Pansy held up a hand. ‘ _Stop_ , Granger. I know maybe you think you have something going on with you and Draco. Some sort of weird, _torturously_ dark past in which you’re both _helplessly_ intertwined, but that doesn’t mean you know him, and it doesn’t mean you know me. So do me a favour, and don’t stick your nose in someone else’s business for once, okay?’

Hermione couldn’t say that she didn’t know what Pansy meant. She knew too well. She couldn’t say, either, that Pansy didn’t understood what she was saying, or understood the way things were between Hermione and Malfoy, because Hermione didn’t rightly know how they were, and that was admitting that there was something worth thinking about at all.

‘I’ll keep my big mouth shut,’ Hermione said, words cool and not a little self-deprecating. ‘You can trust me.’

Pansy started going heading towards the girls’ corridor. ‘Sure, Granger. A Slytherin trusting a Gryffindor. That’ll be the day.’


	5. Chapter 5

Saturday came. Hermione skipped breakfast, brushed her hair and put on some make-up. She bathed – for an hour. She spent more than five minutes deciding what to wear. She didn’t put a book in her bag, and wore something of colour. She looked in the mirror for more than thirty seconds, and putting the glamour on her arm didn’t make her sob. When Saturday came Hermione felt a little more person-like, and that was good.

Eighth year students could Apparate out of Hogwarts if they wanted, but Hermione walked, a periwinkle coat tapping at the back of her knees as she walked down, cream shirt open at the colour, grey scarf wrapped tight around her bare throat. The path groaned beneath her feet, thin sheets of ice cracking, and she cast a non-slip spell on her brown lace-up boots. Birds flew in flocks overheard, dark masses flying south for the relative warmth and darkening the pale blue skies, so clear, so crisp, so sharp to breathe; it was going to snow next week. It was too early for any other students to be about, and the silence would have been eerie if she wasn’t so grateful for it, loud noise making her flinch, whispered conversation making her mind strain to hear the words just in case she missed something important, realising it wasn’t for her to listen, wasn’t for anyone to listen, and probably wasn’t important, either.

Hogsmeade was quiet when she got there, but it was somehow warm. She could smell the fresh bread and waft of sausage rolls from the bakery, and peered wistfully through the window of the shop, moist cakes and dusted pastries and sweetmeats dripping with honey laid out before her. She could see the windows of the rows of little thatched cottages being open, early-risers drawing the curtains, lighting fires.

When she’d last been, the town had smelled of smoke and burnt wood and burnt hair; it had been too quiet, pierced by a woman’s shriek or a man’s awful sobbing, a perpetual darkness that Hermione hated herself for thinking it wouldn’t end. But now there was that familiar sweetness to the town that was imbedded in the cobble stones and the smallest of smiles of the locals, and the burnt roofs had been replaced, and the gutters weren’t full of glass and blood, the walls no longer holding the ashen shadow of what had once been a person. It was strange to think what could have been, what so nearly might have been, and how quickly it was all forgotten again.

 _No_ , Hermione thought to herself. Not forgotten. Buried. Built over with a façade, a mirage of something better and less painful, something sweeter. Which wasn’t to say that there wasn’t a sadness to the shopkeepers’ eyes, or the feel of something not-quite-right when she passed an alley, the sun barely high enough to light it. But it was a process of recovery, and it would take time, and it had not been nearly long enough yet.  

The local blacksmith stood behind her anvil in the awning of her store when Hermione passed, heat radiating through the awning, sparks of all colours flying about. The muscles of her arms were as big as tree trunks, but the sound as the hammer struck the iron on the anvil was muted, and the spitting fire never seemed to reach more than a foot in front of her. She looked up as Hermione passed, waving away the shielding mist from her face, and gave Hermione a smile that filled her whole face. It was a smile Hermione recognised when Aberforth had hustled them through the Hog’s Head and into the Room of Requirement. The woman had smiled at her then, given her a nod, placing such trust in a girl she barely knew.

‘Hoo are ye, lassie?’ the blacksmith asked, expression earnestly jovial.

‘Well, thank you,’ Hermione replied. She’d forgotten how thick the brogue was, how guttural it could be, how warm it sounded. She couldn’t remember the woman’s name. ‘How’s business?’

She gave a shrug. ‘Naw baud,’ she said. ‘Everyone needs somethin’ fixin’ nowadays. Prices just can’t be whit they used tae be.’ 

Hermione gave her a sympathetic nod. ‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Bah. Naethin’ ye can dae abit it. Or mebbe _ye_ can!’ She finished this with that full-belly kind of laugh that seemed to shake the rafters of her workshop. Hermione caught the way the locals around her grinned small grins at the sound.

Hermione shrugged in a modest, helpless way.

‘Tell them laddies ah said hallo,’ the blacksmith said.

Hermione nodded. ‘Will do. Take care.’

‘An ye, girl.’ Her smile slipped a little. ‘This toon’s grateful tae ye, lass. Dinnae forget that, a’richt?' She pulled the mist back over her face, and sparks started flying again.

The boys wouldn’t be there for another hour yet, so she wandered around the town, remembering the pathways and the narrow streets between the thatched cottages like they were embedded on the back of her hand. She munched on an apple from the green grocers’ as she roamed about, and bought two pumpkin pasties for the boys and a slice of lemon drizzle for herself to eat later when she was back at her desk and alone again. They were wrapped in little silver boxes with red ribbon that the baker gave her with a wink. She popped her head around the door of Ollivanders and Honeydukes too, as well as taking a moment to buy a few herbs from Dogweed and Deathcap. 

Everyone had a smile for her, a nod of the head, a hello. And everyone had a comment to make about prices, about the economy, about the struggle for any sort of recovery when the Ministry’s coffers had been so violently exhausted. She could help them with spells and jinxes, with quick fixes to their broken awnings or lifting a box onto a shelf, but she couldn’t help them with that, couldn’t give them money she didn’t have and didn’t know how to make. She knew Arithmancy, and knew how to pass her NEWT exam, but that wasn’t the same as offering financial advice that the Wizarding Finance Minister didn’t have, weary and strung-out and small beside Kingsley on every morning’s copy of the _Daily Prophet_. Not even the _Quibbler_ could try to paint him in an impressive light with his lack of charisma, lack of action, lack of everything.

‘No wonder he looks so miserable, though,’ Neville that week over breakfast. Skeeter’s commentary of the minister that morning ranged from disparaging to downright offensive. It was a wonder it had been published. ‘ _You_ try and make money from nothing in a country that’s just been through a war.’ Not everyone had murmured their agreements.

Finally, Hermione found herself in the Hog’s Head, hustled almost wordlessly to a corner table, half in shadow, half in the early morning sunlight from a nearby window. The table was sticky from Butterbeer and the room smelled faintly of tobacco and grease and coffee, and, before long, huge plates of sausages and egg-dipped toast and black pudding and tomatoes and mushrooms and everything she knew they’d drool over was rammed onto the table, and a Butterbeer was put in front of her with a wordless smile and sparkle to his awful, brilliant eyes.

 She was weirdly nervous, palms sweaty, fidgeting in her seat and her back too straight. Had it really been three months? It felt like longer – it felt like no time at all. She wished she’d brought a book, something to distract her. She found herself counting the bricks on the wall in front of her, looking at the old oil paintings on the walls, where a hog was being turned around and around on its spit, a fire flickering, huddled figures cast in an orange glow like they were, just for a moment, alight.

And then, at last, a voice sounded behind her - _Merlin_ it was so familiar – and said, ‘Bit early for the Butterbeer, isn’t it?’ that she found herself back out of her seat, arms around a neck and body pressed against someone so warm and real and solid that she wanted to cry. And then someone else was next to her and their arms were around her and they smelled just like they used to, peppermint and clean and a shock of red hair, and she was crying. Not loudly, just quiet, stomach-aching sobs that threatened to rip from her mouth in a way that made her understand that, maybe, she was falling apart. And that, maybe, there were still two people that might be able to hold on to her and keep her together just for a little longer. 

 

* * *

 

 

‘I never want to see another piece of bacon again,’ Ron groaned, hands across his stomach, eyes shut tightly. He licked off the tomato sauce from the corner of his mouth, and, feeling thoroughly disgusted with herself, it made her want to kiss him.

‘You say that every time you eat,’ Hermione told him.

Harry was grinning, but even he was slouching in his seat, eyes partially closed. ‘That’s because he eats _everything_.’

‘You certainly help,’ Ron remarked.

Hermione sipped at a glass of orange juice. It was sharp and sweet and the ice in the glass hit her teeth. ‘Busy week?’ she asked.

Ron looked at Harry; Harry looked at Ron. They shrugged at the same time, and then smiled in a way that was familiar enough that she thought she was in fifth year, sitting next to Slughorn in the Three Broomsticks while her head swam and smoke and the sticky sweet smell of Butterbeer filled the room. Three years had passed; their smiles had not changed, but she wasn’t sure when she had felt most stable.

‘Sort of?’ Harry said. ‘Most of it’s physical training. Like some sort of endless Defence lesson.’

‘With a bit more urgency,’ Ron added. ‘Less… remember-this-for-the-exam, and more remember-this-for-when-you’re about to die sort of thing.’

‘Thought you two would be rather skilled with that.’

‘I dunno,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

‘Gosh.’

He gave her a hard look, and she noticed how his green eyes were darker, his jaw clipped, a shadow of scruff creeping up his neck and around his mouth. His skin was a little tanned form the summer, and a white shirt clung to his shoulders. Barely a man, but he hadn’t been recognisable as a boy for a long time.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said again. ‘We were… we were so lucky. With the war. With the fighting.’

Hermione didn’t understand, and she told him so.

‘Well, I just think that we could have had it so much worse. It could have gone on for _years_ , couldn’t it? We could have been out on a battle field every day for _years_.’

‘I wouldn’t call what we did a walk in the park, Harry,’ Ron said quietly. He said it in a way that wasn’t an attempt to make his own efforts seem worthy – seem more – but because he didn’t want what they did to be forgotten. Because the lines around their mouths and the readiness of their wands didn’t come from walking around national parks, because they had been too scared for too long for it to be nothing.

‘I’m not saying that,’ Harry said, shaking his head. ‘I’m just saying. Whatever we went through, we weren’t there for the blood and the death and the – the what could have been.’

‘Oh, Harry,’ Hermione said sadly. He was trying to help, trying to make it better, trying always _always_ to make things good. ‘The war went on for _decades_. It was going on since your parents passed. I know it felt like last year. Like one battle, but… a lot of people died, Harry.’

‘I _know_. I know, Hermione,’ he said fiercely. ‘I’m trying to…’

‘I know you’re trying, Harry,’ she replied, trying to soften her eyes, lowering her voice. It was too easy to forget about the locals like they were a part of the furniture, like their homes hadn’t been mortuaries and their streets hadn’t become sewers of blood and odd body parts. ‘I know you want to look at things in a different light. To try and be happy about it. I know that – more than anything – you want to see things positively just for once because _Merlin_ it’s suffocating otherwise. But…’

Ron was quiet, picking melted candle wax of the table until his nails were filled and a small pile grew in front of him. ‘We can’t make the losses seem like for nothing, mate.’

‘I didn’t… Ron, that’s not what I meant,’ Harry said. He was suddenly paler, eyes wider with mortified realisation. ‘Ron, I _never_ meant to diminish his death. _Ever_. Anyone’s death.’ He stared at him. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

Ron shrugged, blasé, words flicking off him like pebbles on a lake, but Hermione knew that they had to sink at some point. ‘S’all right. Just. Have perspective, yeah? It’s hard trying to find a balance. Think too much and you get a bit lost. Don’t remember enough and you just lose a bit of sight.’

The words pressed close on Hermione’s skin, so true, ringing like a bell peal. ‘I haven’t found it yet,’ she told them. ‘I think I’m falling in the former category at the moment.’

Their eyes turned to her at once, roaming her face, searching for something, some indication. Anything they could grab onto like a small nook in the flat face of a cliff, feet slipping, fingers bleeding at the nails.

‘You’re sleeping okay?’ Ron asked her.

‘Okay,’ she said. It was an overstatement. ‘I don’t dream much. I keep waking up for no reason. It’s… pretty tiring, honestly.’

‘I do that,’ he said, imparting a small smile like it was a secret they shared, something dark and sordid and too painful to take any joy from. ‘I’m too ready to start running, you know?’

She knew. She looked at Harry. ‘How’s your scar, Harry?’

‘It’s fine. I keep waiting for it to start burning, but it never does. I’m not sure if it’s more or less unsettling.’

‘Not many people have burning, telepathic scars, Harry,’ Ron told him wryly. ‘I’d go for less.’

It made her laugh, the sound just enough to make her want to cry. She’d not felt it come so easily for a long time, and by the way Ron’s eyes crinkled at the corners, she knew he thought so too.

‘I’m going to get another drink,’ Harry said, rising to his feet. ‘Want anything?’

They shook their heads, and with a beating heart she realised he was leaving them alone. She watched him walk away until he disappeared around the corner towards the bar.

Their eyes met at the same when she looked back. Hermione smiled. Ron smiled back.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she told him, like it was a funeral. She regretted the words, but there was a trace of humour in his face.

‘You’re welcome,’ he replied. ‘You look lovely, by the way. The blue suits you.’

‘I thought I’d treat myself before coming back. I felt like I was shopping for Yule Ball gowns all over again.’

He sighed. ‘If only I’d had that chance,’ he said. His eyes flickered. ‘I was a bit more angry about just the hand-me-down gown, though.’

‘Don’t blame Krum. He’s a seeker. It’s his job to be that bit faster.’

‘No, you deserved to have him on your arm. Did a lot better than I could have done. I trod all over Padma’s feet.’

Hermione bit her lip. ‘I wouldn’t have minded, you know,’ she said. ‘Even if she still does have the blisters to tell for it.’

‘Hey now,’ he protested. ‘I wasn’t _that_ bad.’

She grinned. ‘No, you weren’t. I don’t think you even danced with her for the two of you to ever come close enough for that.’

His answering grin was young and bitter-sweet, and it filled her with longing. She wanted to run her hands through his hair, getting so long, but he was leaning back in his seat, legs outstretched, and she was upright with her feet drawn beneath her seat. That empty space underneath the table felt like an ocean between them; a lost opportunity to touch in the heat of some clandestine, mid-morning desire.

Harry was back not long after, empty-handed, smiling easily and too tentatively.

‘Change your mind?’ Hermione asked him.

‘Hm?’

She shook her head. ‘Never mind,’ she said. He hadn’t changed. ‘Have you spoken to Ginny lately?’

He pulled his glasses of and began rubbing them in the hem of his shirt. ‘On and off,’ he said, keeping his eyes down.

‘They haven’t stopped writing,’ Ron told her, rolling his eyes. She couldn’t help the way the jealousy reared its ugly head, snapping at her heels, pressing on her throat. ‘It’s pretty much his only past-time.’

‘I’m not _that_ bad,’ Harry protested.

Hermione gave him a pointed look. ‘Well, you’ve half-admitted it, so I’d say you probably are. I’m happy for you, Harry. I’m glad you’re both trying so hard to make it work.’

He shrugged and put his glasses back on. They looked no different, but the face they settled on was a little red. ‘She deserves it. I’ve not been very good to her.’

‘It’s not like you had a choice, mate,’ Ron said. ‘You kept her safe. You could have broken her heart a thousand times over so long as you kept her alive. She’d move on.’

And maybe the painful thing was that he was being true. That love didn’t always last, and that sometimes a choice between love and life actually had to be made. Hermione wasn’t sure which she’d choose for herself. If she’d had that kind of autonomy over Ron, she would push that dagger through her heart every night to see his chest rise and fall and his blue eyes open every morning. But a glimpse of love, just a taste of it…Wouldn’t that be worth a thousand lifetimes? She didn’t know, and wondered if maybe she should.

 

* * *

 

 

They sat there until lunchtime, until the pub filled with students and teachers and locals that all glanced at their table with a look Hermione hadn’t gotten used to seeing. Sandwiches and roast dinners and fish and chips and an endless fountain of Firewhiskey and Butterbeer seemed to stream from the kitchen. Muddy footprints filled the old floorboards; old music and what had always seemed like too much laughter – too startling, hairs raised on the back of her neck, eyes darting – lingered in the puffs of smoke and the dark corners and the hard kisses somewhere between a person’s jaw and their throat, the back of an ear, the delicate vein on a wrist. The sky was still a wintry blue through the window, and pumpkins sat quietly on the sills with their faces stretched in sharp, shadowed, candle-lit grins, but everything changed with masses of people, a desperation that was flowing and ebbing and brought up the shadows and hid the whispers.

Hermione noticed the holes in the clothing, the smudges like dying violet petals under the eyes, the scrabbling for coins in the pockets. There couldn’t be too much happiness or too much hope; she knew a self-sufficient community wouldn’t be there for a few years yet, until everything got a little worse before it could get better, until pockets grew emptier and kisses became bloody and the bite to the edges of words were a little more real.

She wished it were like the Muggle fairytales. A wave of a magic wand, abracadabra. Fixed. Tilted mirrors and paintings straightened, clothes smoothed, a hole in the roof fixed, a dress made, bread put on the table. Breath in someone’s lungs. Money in someone’s bank. What use was a wand that could bring her a book when she was too tired to get out of bed? Or a wand that tidied her books or filled her bath at the flick of the wrist?

She knew it was worth more than that, that it could flow blood under her hands, that it could turn her into a solider and let her kill or save, that it was worth _something_ – more than she appreciated then, but it was hard to understand when all she saw were people that wanted or needed something that she was unable to give.

‘I’m sorry I can’t stay longer,’ Harry was saying. He put a small pouch of coins on the table that Hermione knew probably wasn’t small at all.

‘It’s okay. I’ve got things to be doing.’

He rose to his feet and began buttoning up his coat. Ron stayed sitting. ‘Keep in touch, okay?’ Hermione nodded, and Harry leaned over to kiss her on the forehead, a careful press of his lips that he would have blushed at once.

She held his hand for a moment, and when she let him go, he was gone, green eyes shining. The air felt emptier; her heart hadn’t felt so heavy.

She looked back, and Ron’s stare was enough. She started crying.

He leaned over to hold her hand. ‘Hermione, please…’

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to. I’m just tired.’ She rubbed at her eyes with her fingers; they were lily white and she knew her eyes must have been rimmed burning red.

‘You know what I… I wish I didn’t…’

‘No, it’s fine. I know. I understand.’ He was looking at her like he doubted she did, but he’d gotten used to believing what she told herself. ‘We really needed each other, and we still do, but I don’t think we need each other like that anymore.’

‘It’s not about whether I need you, Hermione. I’ve always needed you,’ he said, those blue eyes just reaching her somewhere between her ribs. ‘I just didn’t realise how stupid I was to not want you for so long and—’

‘And you don’t want me anymore.’

‘No. No, I _do_. But…’ He looked around him, as if that room was his world, as if he could see a future and answers to his life that she was still yearning for. She was so desperate for that clarity. ‘I’ve got years of this, Hermione. We’ve got lives that we can do something with now. I can’t – I can’t do these three month gaps where we see each other for five minutes and don’t write or anything.’

‘I’ve been busy,’ she whispered.

‘No, I _know._ I’m not _blaming_ you, Hermione. Please don’t think I’m blaming you. We just… We would have written, yeah? Would have made the effort. And we haven’t. And I think we would have, don’t you?’

She found herself nodding, because that was easy to do. ‘I love you, Ron,’ she said, and that wasn’t easy to say.

‘I love you, too,’ he said, reaching across for her hands, ‘but… I don’t think I love you enough.’ She pulled her hands back, putting them under the table, and he let out a sigh. ‘You don’t deserve someone that loves you with half their heart, Hermione, because that’s not what love is. That’s not what you’re supposed to get.’

Hermione looked somewhere above his head, at the huddled figures of the oil painting. She couldn’t see their faces, but they looked warm and soft and like they’d be smiling if she could see their lips. ‘Do you remember how it was,’ she murmured, ‘with Harry and Ginny? They were so desperate to touch each other. There was such a… an _urgency_ to them. Like they’d burn if they got too close, but like they were drowning when they were apart.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you, Hermione.’

She smiled at him. ‘You haven’t, Ron. This is for the best,’ she said. God forbid her to be the one who made someone stay in a relationship they didn’t want to be in. ‘Really, I do understand. I’m… proud of you that you brought this up with me.’ And she was, because how long would he have kept this going before? This charade where their lips never met and their eyes didn’t really look, where the owls came and went with empty talons and she was left with that sinking uncertainty that would just keep dragging her down as one more wavering variable in her life.

His expression twisted at the words, and he leaned back a bit in his chair. ‘So, that’s us then? We just say friends, and that’s it?’

She tried to keep her tone light, and her eyes bright. She was thankful that she didn’t face the window, hated that his eyes looked so sapphire blue, his freckles a smattering of constellations across his fair skin.

‘That’s all there needs to be,’ she said. ‘I don’t like complexity.’

He gave her a wry look. ‘I think that’s my line.’

‘I don’t… need complexity,’ she corrected herself. ‘None of us do.’

‘I think we’ve earned it,’ he said, eyes glittering. His face softened, and when he looked at his watch he sighed. ‘I should go. We’re supposed to check in every few hours while we’re on call.’

Hermione rose to her feet, and he helped her put her coat on, wrapped her scarf around her neck. When they looked at each other, she knew this was where they were supposed to kiss, but his eyes didn’t go to her lips, and she tried not to let hers go to his. She leaned up on her toes – when had he gotten so _big?_ – and gave him chaste kiss, one she wouldn’t be embarrassed to give Harry.

‘Take care of yourself,’ Hermione said.

‘You too,’ he replied, and they started walking towards the door. There was a chill in the air, and the wind toyed with the stray curls of Hermione’s hair as they stepped outside.

Hermione looked at him as they stood off to the side of the pub, eyes watering from the cold. ‘I mean it.’

‘So do I,’ he said. ‘See you at Christmas?’

Almost three months. She could do that. Hermione nodded. ‘See you then.’

He touched her on the shoulder, and it was feather-light, and after he Disapparated she realised that she couldn’t remember how it felt.

 

* * *

 

Much later, when a fire had been lit in the eighth year common room and students were heading off to the rooms after dinner, the portrait opened. The figure that stepped into the room looked cold, coat pulled around tightly, hair in wild curls around their face, lips red and cracked, eyelashes dark and wet. They were tucked in on themselves, as if somehow they could bury themselves in their own body, as if they could disappear if they tried hard enough to be invisible.

Sitting in front of the fire, Draco Malfoy cleared his throat, but he didn’t look up.

She jumped from where she stood by a side table against the wall, and other than a quick glance over her shoulder, she didn’t look up either.

‘Malfoy,’ she said.

‘Granger,’ he said. And then, ‘All right?’

His tone wasn’t sympathetic, wasn’t even curious, but it wasn’t mocking. She almost wished it were, just so she could hate something then. Someone.

Hermione sniffed. ‘Ron and I… We broke up.’ Her head was bowed over the table as she busied her hands with loose sheets of paper – flyers and scribbled notes and unwanted post and memos. She didn’t even know what she was looking for.

When there was silence, she spared a glance behind her. His eyes flashed to hers from where they had been inspecting his long fingers.

‘Sorry,’ he said, like it had occurred to him that he should say something.

He wasn’t, and they both knew it, but she almost appreciated the gesture.

‘Thanks,’ Hermione whispered. She paused for a moment, hovering, and then walked across the room. The door closed with a soft click when she left.

The silence lasted for ten minutes. Malfoy flicked through the pages of his book, the _fwick, fwick_ a harmony with the crackle of the flames. Hermione lay on her bed with her arms over her chest, like she lay in a tomb, and she stared at the canopy of her bed, the light fabric, the gold tassel, the folds of the material. Tears were leaking from her eyes and the salt stung her chapped lips, but she didn’t dare close them.

And then a knock came, and she sat up.

‘Who is it?’ she called.

The voice was deep and smooth as silk and decidedly not female.

‘Um. Just a minute.’

The door opened. Malfoy walked in, shut the door, propped himself against it, like some elaborately ornate accessory that had no right to be in her room. Frankly, it was a little shabby, odd blankets in piles on her bed, clothes spilling out of her hamper, pens and quills shoved in odd nooks and crannies and books – books _everywhere._ In her bed, peeking out behind wardrobes and sitting in open drawers, leaning dangerously on her bed side tables and lying in stacks on her desk, on her shelves, on her vanity table, on the unused chair groaning under the weight. It was no wonder her clothing smelled of parchment and that faint, petrol-like smell of ink.

It was a marvel she had time to read them, but it wasn’t about reading – it was about dipping fingers in the pages, stealing lines of information, registering a diagram, a phrase, noting chapter headings and snatching just a _taste_. And sometimes it was staying up until four in the morning, or tossing and turning all night before reaching for something near and flitting through the pages until her mind was settled and focused and blurry and her eyes could shut just for a few hours of empty sleep.

‘I could have been changing,’ Hermione said, perched on the end of her bed, wiping furiously at her eyes.

‘You weren’t.’

‘I could have.’

Malfoy rolled his eyes. ‘This came for you,’ he said, holding out a letter. ‘This morning. I thought you’d want to read it.’

Hermione looked at it, and with a sigh he moved forward and put it in her hands. She glanced at the address, at the Ministry stamp, and then opened it with a slowness that she could tell made Malfoy want to take it back out her hands and rip it apart himself.

But he waited, and stared intensely at the parchment in her hands as her eyes, red and leaking tears at the corners, scanned over the pages. Her cheeks were wet, and she took the offered handkerchief without even looking at him, without evening having to know that a black _DLM_ was stitched in the corner.

‘They want me for an interview.’

He was back against the door, and her heart beat a little faster. No exit. ‘You’d think it would be a death warrant they’d just handed you.’

‘I’ve got other things on my mind.’ She blinked at him. ‘Did you read it?’

His eyes narrowed, expression shrewd. He pulled his hands from his pocket to fold his arms against his chest. ‘One day I _will_ invade your privacy. Just for the fucking hell of it.’

‘You’re doing it right now,’ she said, looking at him. In _her_ room, standing on _her_ floor. Uninvited.

‘Jesus. Forgive me for giving you something I thought might stop you from fucking crying like a—’

‘ _Bullshit_. Bull. Shit. You did _not_ bring me this because you cared about my _feelings_. You brought it because you knew I’d raise hell if I knew you’d kept _my_ possessions since this morning.’

‘Yes. You’re exactly right, Granger. You always know _so_ much about me. About what a lying, manipulative, little—’

‘I’m so glad you’ve gained a reflective understanding of yourself, Malfoy.’

He was laughing, a nasty sound. He had a hundred different laughs; no one ever knew quite which one they’d get. ‘You’re so fucking ungrateful, Granger.’

‘I’m ungrateful?’ she spat. ‘ _Me_?’

‘You didn’t even fucking say thank you! I didn’t even have to _give_ you the damned letter.’

She gave him mocking look of concern; it was difficult to even pretend to be worried about him. ‘Did I hurt your pure-blood feelings, Malfoy? Because you’re such a _pinnacle_ of _politeness_?’

Something banged on the door. His mouth was already open to retort, eyes molten in the hushed gold light of her room, but he stilled suddenly, moving from the door, wand out.

His hand was so still; his expression was so calm. He was miles from what he had been two seconds ago and Hermione couldn’t tell if this was an improvement. He was a statue, so ready, body coiled like a snake ready to spring, jaws wide-open, venom dripping. Too ready for a fight. She thought he’d been innocent and ill-prepared when he’d fallen asleep outside the Hospital Wing. Now he was anything but.

He glanced at her, a wordless question, their argument abandoned, and she shook her head.

‘Who is it?’ Hermione called.

‘ _Dumbledore_ ,’ a slightly nasal voice replied. ‘Who the fuck do you think it is, Granger?’

Hermione let out a sigh, and Malfoy ran a hand through his hair.

Within seconds the door swung open. ‘I know you have issues with keeping your mouth shut, Granger, but would it kill you to…’ Her eyes swung to him, widened. ‘Draco?’

‘Pansy.’

Pansy looked at Malfoy, then Hermione, and then back again. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said. She shuffled on her feet, and her expression was both uncertain and filled with spite. She looked like a child who’d been shouted at by her father, red-faced and spitting, but who still just hoped and trusted that little bit too much.

‘I had something to give to Granger, Pans,’ he told her. His voice was soft, expression soft, his shoulders sloped, curved towards her like everything about him was _for_ her. He was spitting and as nasty as a viper, and then he was warrior-like and motionless. And now... Hermione couldn’t keep up; she didn’t know which one was real. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know how deeply the right one lay beneath the surface.

‘What was it?’ Pansy said, curious, suddenly righteous in a way that made Malfoy raise his pale brows.

‘Is that any of your business?’ he asked her carefully, and she flushed a red so vibrant it matched the throw across Hermione’s bed. Hermione wanted to know how often he used that tone with Pansy, with the Slytherins, and how often he got his way. His words were so low and soft that they hit her deep in the throat, made her own ears feel like they were burning.

 _You’re so much like your father,_ she wanted to say.

Hermione cleared her throat. Pansy was staring at him like she seemed to be falling into an abyss Hermione couldn’t see. ‘As much as I like having a little Slytherin gathering in my room, I’d much rather _not_.’

Malfoy sneered at her, but then it vanished. It was like glimmers of himself snuck in through the cracks, like he tied the real version down and it seeped through his eyes, through the shape of his mouth, and she was never sure if she saw what she thought she had.

‘Believe me, Granger,’ he said. ‘As if your company could ever be nothing other than a fucking plague.’

She was ready to spit something back at him – anything – but his hand was on Pansy’s elbow, and he was guiding them out the door with a strength and fluidity that almost made her miss the moment that they left and the door slammed shut.

She heard Pansy’s voice through the door, and then silence, a door shutting, and footsteps walking away.

She put the letter on her bedside, and realised his handkerchief was still crumpled in her hand. She made an effort to throw it across the room, but the soft cotton smoothed itself out somehow, landing quietly, barely a metre from her. She stared at it, wondering what he’d do if she burnt it, made a charred hole just where his initials were stitched into the corner. First, she saw his face, and it made the back of her neck tingle, and then she saw Narcissa, just sitting in a chair, the cloth in her pale hand, sewing needle in another, and she knew what she’d do if he did the same.

So she stripped off her clothing and climbed under her sheets, and when she’d finished reading a chapter of her book and turned off the light, it still lay on her floorboards, and would do for some time.

 

* * *

 

She dreamt that night, for the first time in a while, because she hadn’t slipped into sleep so deeply. It was fourth year, but she was older, more like herself. It was the Quidditch World Cup, but Hogwarts was a burning silhouette in the backdrop, some strange re-living of the Final Battle.

‘You should get her out,’ someone was saying. ‘Mudbloods running around. Someone will find her.’ And then someone was tugging on her arm, nails in her skin, blood running in thick rivulets, the sky so dark it pooled black on her bare feet.

She was running, and the sky was filled with flashes of green, and she felt a searing heat rush past her, her hair burning and the singed smell filling her nose, and she felt warm wetness down her legs at the raw wound across her cheek, sticky and open to the bone, flesh ripped open.

The arm was still tugging, the nails so sharp, and she stared at them as her feet tripped over each other. They were yellow, long and lengthening, like Lupin’s had been. Like Greyback’s had been as they dug into Lavender Brown’s neck and ripped out her throat and part of her spine. She had been so still. She had blinked when he did it, then closed her eyes, and Hermione threw up on her trainers.

‘Hurry up, Granger,’ someone said. ‘They’re going to see you. Better keep your head down.’

So she ducked as curses flew over her, hair burning, screams as loud as the sound of bones breaking. Tents were ablaze, black cloaks whipped at her face like snatching shadows, and the sound of falling stone was like bombs going off around her. Every time she froze a second too long, and something nipped at her heels, bloody and torn, and something dragged at her hair, jagged and shorn, and something stabbed at her back, stinging and deadly.

‘I can’t anymore,’ she said. Her voice was loud, like the sound around her had been trapped and put in a bubble; it was muffled and felt like there was cotton wool in her ears.

The figure turned. ‘You have to,’ Harry said.

But he wasn’t Harry. His eyes flickered between green and blue, hair from black to burgundy.

‘Mudbloods don’t get away from something like this,’ they said. And then the mouth curled, and the eyes were black, and it was Bellatrix, knife bloody and dripping down her hand.

‘I need to get away,’ she whispered. A flash of light overhead, a giant falling to the ground and making the earth shake around her. The doors to the castle were blown off their hinges, and the fire spread through the tents like dry grass in the desert. She could feel the heat on her torn flesh.

‘You can’t,’ Bellatrix said. Her features melted away, and suddenly they were smooth and the grey eyes were intense and the face was so still. They just stared at her. And then they raised a wand.

It should have sounded normal for the sound to come from him, to see that wand pointed at her heart, but she still hadn’t expected it, some naïve hope mixed with underestimation. Her body was tense and rigid, bones aching to hold. He whispered the words; they were feather light, curses exploding behind him like a firework show. If she shut her eyes the spectacle shone behind her eyelids, and for a moment she could pretend they were fairy lights.

‘Malfoy,’ she said. ‘You could have been more,’ she said.

But he said, _‘Avada Kedavra’_ , and green light filled her, and she forgot how to breathe.


	6. Chapter 6

Professor Tenrin was a hard man. His hands were scarred, and his skin was rough. He was mountainous, tall and solidly built, and his eyes were an indeterminate colour that seemed to flit around the room. He spoke in imperatives, in short sharp bursts, like he was giving orders in a battle, and seemed to look at everyone at once – make you feel like he was talking directly to you – and no one at exactly the same time.

But his spells were loud, his wand quick, his body capable of twisting this way and that until his opponent lay folded on the floor with an amusing lack of grace. He was brutish, and unyielding, and Draco thought that if he threw a brick at the man’s head the brick would be the thing to shatter.

During his detention the man had given him and Blaise orders without looking at them, and then hadn’t spoken again. He’d sat behind his desk, filling the chair, making the stacks of boxes and the piles of essays seem like child’s toys, the quill in his hand like a sewing needle as it darted over the paper.

Draco wanted to ask him why he was there, but he didn’t like asking questions that he didn’t already know the answer to. He couldn’t see Tenrin as someone who wanted to ‘settle down’ after the war, to sit behind a desk and not venture back out into the field. But he looked at the thin white line around the man’s neck, so faint it was barely visible, and the scars littered across his skin that looked like etchings in a painting or wayward hairs, and he had to doubt himself.

‘You are adults, and I am an adult,’ Tenrin had said when they walked into the room. ‘As far as I see it, you’re doing me a favour. Essays are on the desk, marking criteria on top. You can go after two hours.’

They sat, they marked, and when Blaise looked at Draco after two hours, they got up and left. Tenrin hadn’t moved, and didn’t thank them as they opened the door, and that was that.

Now he used his wand, quick flicks of his wrist, sometimes wordless, sometimes painfully slow, and one of the Patil twins stood in front of him with a manic grin on her face, laughter sneaking from her mouth like bubbles from a clam. He was careful in his demonstrations, like an invisible string hung between his wand and the girl, and he tugged and loosened it with an odd delicateness.    

‘Party tricks,’ Pansy muttered. ‘We go through a war and he shows us how to cast fucking laughing jinxes.’

‘It’s not like you did much to contribute in the war, Parkinson,’ Finch-Fletchley sneered, standing not too far from her. ‘Maybe this is all for your benefit. Might be all you can handle.’

She lurched forward, face twisted, but a look at Draco’s iron grip on her arm and the still expression of his face made her pause. The warning went unspoken.

‘Fuck off, Fletchley,’ Blaise said. His eyes were looking somewhere past him, and his voice was cold in the way that made him sound both remotely unconcerned and far too attentive to make anyone comfortable.

The Hufflepuff laughed quietly. He was looking at Pansy, but he nodded at Draco. ‘He’s still got you on a leash then? Fucking disgusting. Surprised the both of you aren’t in a cell being bent over every night—’

She sucked in a sharp breath, and Draco didn’t stop her this time. Beside him, Blaise sighed. She was a blur as she launched herself at him, just enough time for Draco to appreciate the mix of shock and faint, fast-fading traces of humour on his face before Pansy’s fist met his jaw, and then his mouth, the side of his head, his stomach.

He’d seen her fight before, always expecting an open palm and nails and clumps of hair in her hands. There was something therapeutic about watching her dark eyes hardening and instead seeing the steady punching of her fist, like a marionette stuck on a loop, hitting the right bits of flesh with every strike.

It didn’t take long for Tenrin to look over, busy talking with a gaggle of Gryffindors. Draco saw Granger lurking in the back of the group. She was watching Pansy with a strange expression. A strange hint of eagerness that made him feel slightly unsettled, as if some balance had been disturbed.

‘Enough!’ Tenrin shouted, voice booming through the hall. ‘ _Enough_!’

But Pansy didn’t stop, and Finch-Fletchley’s mouth was bloody, and he tried to push her off when her knee came up between his legs.

Malfoy let out a quiet sound of amusement, and said, ‘Pansy.’

She stilled, and Tracey pulled her off with strong hands around her shaking shoulders, and her mouth was curved in something between a grin and a grimace. Blaise and Draco stood either side of the girls like they were sentries, and Draco pressed his arm against Pansy’s shoulder. She nudged him back.

Tenrin walked over to Fletchley, still lying there. He muttered wildly and his eyes roamed the ceiling of the hall. Theodore, beside Draco, made no attempt to help; there were certain things that he was responsible for, and it seemed he hadn’t chosen to be for this one.

Tenrin was frowning down at the Hufflepuff, unconcerned. ‘Get up,’ he said, and the room watched in silence as Fletchley groaned into a kneeling position, and pushed himself off the floor. His right eye was already swelling and sealing, and his jaw looked slightly unhinged. It didn’t stop him from glaring, from jutting out his chin. He spat blood onto the floorboards.

‘Go to the Hospital Wing,’ Tenrin told him. ‘I want you back here when Pomfrey is done with you.’ He turned to Pansy. ‘And you,’ he said, pointing, and Draco noticed he had a few fingers missing, ‘get out of my class. If you want to fight, you will use your wands. And if you want to use your wands, you will ask me to oversee a monitored duel. Is that understood?’

Only Fletchley nodded.

Tenrin glared at Pansy. ‘IS THAT UNDERSTOOD!’ His voice boomed through the hall, and even Pansy had the decency to look startled – maybe mollified.

Eyes down, she nodded.

Tenrin looked around the room, but he seemed to be staring at Draco when he said it.

‘I know there will be tensions among you all for some time, perhaps for the rest of your lives, and that is a very sad thing. But you will not – you _will not_ fight in my class without acting with a modicum of decorum, skill, and maturity. Is that _understood_?’

The class nodded – Draco with a blink of his eyes, Granger with an unwilling, unconvincing jerk of her head; it was not an agreement, and it was not a compromise. Neither of them liked the lack of a negotiation. The acquiescence.

‘Now,’ he said, and Pansy headed towards the door, and Fletchley left a few moments after. ‘Some of you are wondering why I am bothering with juvenile magic,’ he said. He put his hands on hips, arms bulging, and his feet were planted apart so that he stood without moving anything but his eyes and his lips. ‘When you are in a scenario where excessive amounts of powerful magic are used, you become drained. Your magic weakens. It’s a shock to the system. The only benefit someone would get from seeing you continue to use that level of magic is to see you on the floor and foaming at the mouth. We are not built to sustain the kind of power that we use through a war. People die very easily from that. Your organs begin to shut down, and your mind will quickly follow.’

Everyone listened with rapt attention, like they knew what he was talking about. Like they knew what it felt like to walk about after being struck by lightning again and again, shocks running through their bodies, bodies bruising, minds shutting off.

‘I am not eager to see that happen. You need to readjust to using your magic, to become familiar with it, to ease yourself into something light.’

‘Is that why Defence was compulsory for NEWTs, Professor?’ Granger asked. ‘A form of rehabilitation?’

Tenrin nodded his head. ‘Of sorts. And because, given the recent socio-political climate, the Ministry feels it was apt for you all to be capable should any further… complications arise.’

There was some muttering around him, from every House. He seemed to be realizing that they were students, but that they were adults, that they had been in the castle when the Dark Lord had been there, that they had seen him and fought his followers and they had seemed to lose more than they had won. And, least of all by the Ministry, they no longer appreciated being lied to.

‘You understand if we all feel somewhat disenchanted by the rulings of the Ministry, Professor,’ Granger said. For once Draco didn’t want to spit at her words, didn’t want to make some remark or fight the urge to show something and instead show nothing – to _be_ nothing.

‘Believe me, Miss Granger,’ Tenrin said. ‘You’re not the only ones.’

At the end of the class, there was a sort of lightness to the room. Perhaps it was the wintry light through the windows of the cavernous hall, perhaps it was the ghost of a smile on the students’ faces. They were lifted; they _felt_ something of what they had been. They didn’t feel useless.

Before Draco could walk from the hall, Blaise, Theodore and Tracey muttering slightly ahead of him, the professor called his name. He was the last one to leave, but heads glanced back as he turned and re-entered the hall. Tenrin still looked huge, though he was alone, though he was sitting on one of the Ravenclaw benches that had moved back to their places for lunch, shuffling papers together into a pile that fit neatly in his dinner-plate hands.

‘Yes?’ Draco said. He kept a distance from the man, and Tenrin was not a fool to be ignorant of it.

‘I heard what Finch-Fletchley said to you and the Parkinson girl. Firstly, I wanted to apologise.’

Draco frowned.

‘I will be having words with him when he returns from the Hospital Wing, but I feel I should apologise to you for not having berated him for that whilst he was here. He and others among him should realise that behavior is unacceptable.’

‘I don’t see the need for a public humiliation.’

‘That wasn’t my aim, Malfoy,’ Tenrin said, but his tone said, _and you know that too._ ‘Regardless, I’d appreciate you passing the message on to Parkinson. She is welcome to attend the next class, though I’d appreciate it if she could keep her fists to herself.’

‘She was provoked,’ Draco said, some mild attempt at defence, but he didn’t feel much like arguing with the man, or giving excuses.

‘I know. But keep an eye on that girl, and for Merlin’s sake stop encouraging her into positions that cause nothing but grief for her.’

‘She’s not my possession. I don’t _own_ her.’

Tenrin just looked at him. ‘Did I say that?’ he asked. ‘Did I once say that?’

Draco didn’t respond.

‘No, I don’t think I did. My _meaning_ is that she is your friend, and you have a responsibility towards her as a _friend_. I don’t know what sort of relationship you and Parkinson have, Malfoy—’

‘That’s none of your—’

‘And that’s none of my business, I know. But you stopped her from going at that idiot the first time, and you stopped her when she wouldn’t listen to me. Why don’t you use that influence and stop her from making an idiot out of herself to begin with?’

Draco looked at him coolly. ‘You’re speaking to me like I have some sort of power over her. That’s a very loaded suggestion.’

‘Quite the manipulator of words, aren’t you?’ Draco blinked at him. The man let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and downright irritation. ‘This is getting nowhere, I see.’

‘Indeed.’

‘So.’ He got to his feet, and Draco didn’t like to think about how much taller he looked even from that distance. ‘Use that mind of yours to think about what I’ve just told you, and _maybe_ think about how easy or hard you want to make this next year for yourself and those around you.’

 _My father wouldn’t like to hear you say that,_ he almost said. So nearly. A slip of the tongue, a familiar barricade. He imagined how Tenrin would laugh at the words, and the man was looking at him like he almost expected him to say them. Draco tasted blood in his mouth, and absently felt a burst of pain. He clenched his jaw.

‘Go fuck yourself,’ he wanted to say. But instead he said, ‘Thank you, Professor,’ and the man was smiling as he walked from the hall.

‘You’re welcome!’ he called, but really he was still an Auror, and by most people's accounts, Draco was still a Death Eater, so it sounded distinctly like, ‘Fuck you, too.’

 

* * *

 

Hermione was interviewed, and it went… Well, it went. She didn’t know what she expected. More than what she gave, probably.

She didn’t recognize anyone on the panel but, of course, they recognised her. There was a small, balding man whose feet didn’t quite touch the ground and swung beneath him like a child. He was from the Department of Magical Creatures, and seemed enamoured with her efforts to enforce S.P.E.W. despite her extra lessons, despite her other efforts to fight against the forces of Voldemort every year. How ridiculous it seemed to her now, to be able to keep that balance. But she hadn’t been thinking about keeping balance; she’d just been trying to keep her head above water.

Another on the panel, a woman from the Wizengamot who had thin lips and looked gaunt in a yellow dress, seemed generally underwhelmed by her, and Hermione could easily say the same. She had started off her part of the interview with a, ‘I suppose I should ask you about your part in the war effort since the rest of the panel seem so interested,’ and Hermione had stared, and felt uncomfortable, and her suit felt too tight suddenly.

‘So you didn’t know what you were looking for?’ she asked her, as their conversation unravelled. Hermione noticed the stray glances the rest of the panel gave the woman, and it was nice to know that maybe they all thought her overly critical, but it did not stop from making Hermione feel small, a hot flash running across the skin at the back of her neck.

‘We had large goals,’ Hermione said, thinking about how long it had been before they even understood what the symbol of the Deathly Hallows meant. ‘But it took time to understand how to cross the smaller stepping stones to get there.’

‘Are you generally that unprepared in most things in life and academia?’

‘Of course not,’ Hermione said. She swallowed a mouthful of water from the cup on the table. ‘I wouldn’t – I wasn’t even unprepared then. They were exceptional circumstances.’

‘And you don’t think that circumstances, regardless of being exceptional or not, should not all be approached with the same methodical, logical planning?’

And Hermione said, impulsively, ‘What would _you_ have done?’

She regretted it instantly, because her tone had contained all the criticism and graceless self-defence of someone who could not hold their composure, and the woman sat back with her eyebrows raised as another of the panel cut in and swiftly directed the interview elsewhere.

‘I’d like to know what _you’d_ personally get out of this, Hermione,’ one of the interviewers said, a black woman with impossibly light grey eyes that Hermione didn’t think were from contacts or magic. ‘Obviously your student experiences have been more colourful than most. You’re Head Girl, you fought more than most in the war effort. I hear you fought a troll in your first year, and every year since then has been a greater challenge. But, what I’m interested in, is how all of that can possibly compare to the kind of placement we’re offering you. Mostly administrative, with none of the physicality of the Auror department.’ She shrugged, and held her hands out across the table. ‘Wouldn’t all of this be… a little _underwhelming_ for you?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hermione said. Someone was writing something, the scratch of a quill on parchment. She remembered, in the days after the war, having to sit in front of a panel, in a suit, and for all they called it a ‘check-up session’ and ‘just a little chat’, it was an interview just like this, with judgments and aimed questions and right-and-wrong answers. She’d walked out of it, which, now, seemed like a childish thing to have done. But they were asking questions she didn’t think were relevant, and she could only think about how weak she’d been because she’d only screamed but she _hadn’t_ given her the answer she _hadn’t_ and—

‘I’m sorry,’ Hermione said now, in a plain room with sparse furniture and no windows; it was not wholly different from the room she’d been in back in May, in front of a panel of people with smiles that didn’t seem real and whose faces and names she couldn’t recall. ‘I don’t know. I… like challenges.’ How weak that sounded. How utterly unmoved she seemed by the whole thing. And the worst part was that she was aware of it, and didn’t know how to change it.

She didn’t want to train to be an Auror because the thought of having to voluntarily push herself through falsified life-and-death scenarios made her feel sick. But she knew how she itched for the real thing. Not because she wanted it, but because something had changed. Made her feel like that was all there was. Like being on the cusp of death and avoiding it was what living meant.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hermione said again, and their smiles were polite and their eyes shadowed beneath a slight frown, and the woman in the yellow dress, oddly, looked like she understood. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

 

* * *

She flooed back to Hogwarts that night, after the interview. Harry and Ron told her to stay at Grimmauld Place and said they’d go out for dinner, but she lied and said she had work to do, felt like she was abusing their generosity when she knew she’d failed. Disappointed them. Like she’d lied to them somehow. Not lived up to their expectations.

The common room was empty, and cold, the windows left open and the fire empty. It was usually empty, and Hermione had yet to figure out why. Maybe it was still the discomfort of knowing you were around people who weren’t, according to a talking hat, much like you. Or thought differently, and did things differently. Maybe it was the coldness of the nights settling in, and the comfort of a warm bed, and the seriousness that they now all carried around them like a coat, because this was only a ticket to getting a qualification and leaving. The magic of the place, just a little bit, had faded. Maybe it was none of those things.

Hermione sat on the sofa, and she realized, wiping the soot from her face that was making her skin itch, that her cheeks were wet.

Frustration, really. That’s all it was. Because she knew she could have done better if she’d really tried. She could have pretended – she’d pretended to be a lot of things before. And she felt like, really, she was still pretending to be a lot of things that she no longer was.

A door clicked open, and she looked up as the portrait swung inward, and sucked in a quiet breath. Why did it always have to be him now? It was easy to blame everything on him, she knew, but she couldn’t stop herself because for once she wanted easy. And he was just there.

‘You look fucking miserable,’ he said.

He didn’t sit, just leaned over the back of the armchair, and looked at her with a quiet look that was nothing but unsettling. There was no light, and the clouds outside smothered the moon, so she had to force herself to see things through the darkness to make out his eyes and his mouth, and she noted that they weren’t lit up with sly amusement, and it wasn’t curved with some wicked satisfaction at her discomfort. 

‘I failed the interview,’ she said. ‘It was awful.’

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘I thought you didn’t really want it?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ How easy it was becoming to admit that. That she didn’t, for once, know everything. It scared her, because if she didn’t know the simple things, what did she have that was left for her to declare? What was left of her? She became the mundane, the typical. She became like everyone else. She used to want that, once.

‘Coming back at late hours alone,’ Hermione remarked vaguely. It was easier to talk about him sometimes. ‘Someone might start asking you questions.’

‘They might,’ he said. ‘But I already fill out a report once a month. Tell them what I ate for breakfast. How often I take a piss. I think they’re bored of knowing how droll my life is here.’

‘You’ve got it… so easy. If that’s all you have to do. If that’s all this has come to, after everything.’

His smile, in the dark, was loose and not very amused. He straightened up, and then put his forearms on the back of the armchair again, like the movement stopped him from doing something else. ‘Sure. Easy. Let’s go with that, Granger.’

‘I’m just saying. You’re here. You’ll be unmonitored by July. That’s not much, is it?’

‘Are you trying to start something?’

‘I’m saying that given everything you’ve done, you should be grateful. This isn’t really any more than you deserve.’

A strange silence, because it seemed to be filled with everything that was not being said. They used to fill those moments with hexes and short punches and words filled with spite and enough venom to confuse them both for snakes in human clothing. But now they let the silences settle, let the words echo and repeat in their heads, because hearing each other’s words, and their own words, was enough of an insult now.

And then he said, ‘Fuck if I know why anyone could ever like you, Granger. You’re too much like me sometimes.’

He was nearly through the door nearly gone, when she called out. ‘I’ve still got your handkerchief, Malfoy,’ she said, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears.

‘Just – Fucking keep it, Granger. Wipe that fucking mess of your face.’

She sat back into the sofa, after he was gone. _Odd_ , she thought distantly, in the vague sort of way when one’s head is filled with static and you think things to stop thinking about what might otherwise easily consume you. _Odd that he’d let me dirty something of his._


	7. Chapter 7

The letter came the following week, and it was as she’d expected. That did not make the disappointment or the hurt of it any less, because it was real, and reality always seemed distant and far off until it actually came. Which was inevitable, and made it laughable that Hermione could expect something else.

She’d been in the kitchens at the time, because she was hungry and breakfast was too late on a Saturday, and sometimes she’d help the elves. They didn’t mind the help, because they worked there voluntarily, and were paid – a rule McGonagall had implemented which incidentally led to an increase in elves in the castle – and Hermione was bored, and still felt some regret. The thing about S.P.E.W. was that for all her good intentions, she was defending creatures that did not want to be defended, and Hermione was beginning to see that she’d done that a lot. Pushed herself into places that did not warrant or need her presence. Made them aware of her actions in a way that promoted her more than it did her cause. She had been speaking for creatures that she did not represent, had no real affinity with, and saw in them an oppression that, indirectly, she had placed onto them.

‘I think maybe you saw yourself in them,’ Harry had said over the summer. They had been throwing out their old essays and the rubbish from their school bags and the boxes of things that they had each, for some useless reason that was nothing other than nostalgia, wanted to keep. Hermione had held up a knitted… Scarf? Maybe a long sock? She had laughed at it. Harry continued, because she didn’t understand, and told him so with some small warning. ‘Not because you thought you were like them, doing a job you didn’t want to do, or anything, but because maybe you wanted someone to speak up for you. And, maybe, you assumed that’s what others wanted too.’

Hermione was beginning to wonder if he was right.

She’d written action plans for the prefect team, and finished her essays, and written up her notes for revision, and the boys were not there for her to watch their Quidditch practice and pretend she was not interested, and it was raining and miserable and cold outside, and she did not want to sit in the Three Broomsticks on a day like this.

‘Hermione Granger?’ a voice said. It was small, and came from a small person.

Hermione looked at the elf, her hands covered in flour and dough for the bread, and the elf looked at her like she still had yet to figure out what, exactly, Hermione was doing there.

The elf held out an envelope. ‘This letter is coming for you, Miss,’ she said, tugging at the hem of an orange dress that _was_ a dress and for once not something else. ‘An owl brings it in the window.’

Hermione brushed her hands down the front of her apron, but she still had dough beneath her fingernails and flour still coated her hands.

‘Thank you very much,’ she said, and the elf bobbed a sort of curtsey before heading quickly back to the fireplace. A huge cauldron was settled over the flames, and she had to climb up a ladder made of old boots to peer into it.

For a while, Hermione just watched her, stirring the vat of porridge with tiny arms and a wooden spoon that was as big as her. Partly because it was sweet to watch, but mostly because the envelope felt too thin in her hands, and it was easier to watch the elf than it was to pull the letter out of its casing.

Afterwards, Hermione went back to the common room, where students were making their way to the Great Hall for breakfast. Some of them wore pyjamas, even though it was against the rules, and they gave her a sheepish shrug and a fled before she could comment. Malfoy was there, pulling a jumper over his head, making his hair stick up. He looked at her like he could see the bruises under her eyes, the flour that still caught on the hairs of her arms, the sleeves of her maroon hoody rolled up. Knew exactly where and why she’d been in the kitchens.

And then he looked at the letter, because she’d opened it on her walk back, the halls slowly filling with students, eager for the first serving of breakfast, and had yet to let go of it.

She wasn’t sure why she did it, but she held it behind her, like he couldn’t see it.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Either you’re hiding a picture you’ve taken of me sleeping or—’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she huffed. ‘It’s just a letter.’

‘Potter and Weasley still checking you haven’t offed yourself without them?’

‘Shut up,’ she snapped. It was an awful thing to say, and she thought he knew it was too, and that was exactly why he’d said it. She forgot, sometimes, that he said hurtful things precisely because they were hurtful. There were too many reasons to wonder why that was.

‘Still a moody bitch,’ he said. ‘You get a fucking internship with the Ministry of Magic and you’re _still_ bothered about what I say to you?’

She didn’t tell him that she thought she’d always be bothered about what he said to her – whether he meant it or not.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said. Couldn’t tell why he was bothering to start this now, what had ticked him off this time. Because it was a Saturday morning and she didn’t – she didn’t have the _energy_ to keep this up all the time.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No one does, do they? The only person that ever knows anything is Hermione Granger. The rest of us can just go and fuck ourselves and our stupidity, can’t we?’

She threw the letter on the side table by the portrait, Ministry crest staring up at them. Lisa Turpin and Hannah Abbott slipped between, the last students in the room, casting nervous, awkward glances at them as they left for breakfast, but Hermione didn’t care.

‘You know I’m not always in the _mood_ for your poor little rich boy tantrums, Malfoy.’

‘Merlin, Granger,' he scoffed, looking upwards, like he was saying, _Did you hear all that up there?_ ‘What, did you want your name embossed in the fucking _sky_? Is that what would have made you stop being so disgustingly miserable?’

‘Malfoy.’

‘Sorry, am I being too close to home? Would it have been better if Kingsley came and gave you roses and the acceptance letter with some fucking mistletoe instead? Landed one right on you?’

‘Malfoy—’

‘Because you know there’s a fucking lot of _other_ people who needed this more than you, and would have been more grateful than your pathetic self, and, to be really _honest_ with you, Granger, who _deserved_ this a lot more than y—’

‘I DIDN’T GET IT!' she shouted, head pounding, words ripping from her like she didn't have a choice. 'I didn’t fucking _get_ it, Malfoy. _All right_?’

Her hands were shaking, her lip trembling and bleeding a little where she’d tried so hard to _not say anything; don’t say anything_ and failed. Her heart was thumping, so hard it bruised against her ribcage. It hurt to breathe.

‘I didn’t get it. They didn’t want me. I wasn’t right. I failed. _Happy_?’

He didn’t apologise, or even have the decency to look guilty. But he wasn’t leering and he’d wiped that _look_ off his face. The one that made her want to cry with absolute anger and frustration.

‘Don’t be pathetic, Granger,’ he muttered. He ran a hand through his hair; it was messy and his eyes were dark and shadowed. She noticed that his lip was torn and shredded and chapped as much as her own. ‘It’s not as if you needed this. It’s not a big deal.’

Hermione narrowed her eyes. ‘I thought you said _hundreds_ of people wanted this?’

‘No. Needed. You might have wanted it, but it’s not as if you haven’t done anything else to make you a perfect candidate for any job after this.’ He sat on the arm of a chair, fingers linked loosely together. ‘This would have just been… a cherry on a cake. That you’ve already eaten five times already.’

She rubbed at her eyes. The mood had fallen flat around them, the anger gone like a balloon popped, leaving her feeling deflated and empty and so much more tired. ‘You’re so odd,’ she muttered, couldn’t help that she was scratching at her arm.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I could just do with one or ten hours of sleep. Preferably the latter.’

‘Then go to bed.’

‘What are you, my mother?’

‘No, thank god. I think I would have thrown myself in Azka…’ Hermione lowered her eyes. ‘That was insensitive.’

‘Yes, it was.’

She ignored him. ‘Are you seeing them at Christmas?’

‘I haven’t heard.’

‘From the Ministry?’

‘I’ve sent five owls in the past month.’

‘I could… pass word to Kingsley, if you’d like? It would be the smaller of the favours I’ve already asked of him.’

He looked at her. ‘Are you kidding me?’ His expression soured – went dark and twisted. He pointed a long finger at her, nails bitten to the skin. ‘I don’t need your fucking _favours_ , Granger. I don’t need you putting your nasty little hands on my life and turning it to shit.’

Hermione looked at him, baffled – disturbed at his thoughts and how erratically they changed, like lightning strikes.

‘You’re so blind with hatred for me,’ she told him slowly, ‘that you can’t even see the fact that you’d get to see your _parents_. Merlin, what’s it been?’ she asked. ‘Four months? Five? Not knowing if they’re being given food. If they’re kept warm. If they’ve run in with the dementors.’ She could have stopped twisting the knife. Should have. But he was standing and moving towards the portrait so the fear didn’t clog up her throat. ‘I bet you’re beginning to forget what they _looked_ like.’

The door clicked so quietly. She had to look over to see that he’d left.

 

* * *

 

 

The note slid under his door hours later, time slipped away. The sky was the colour of pitch outside, and his eyes were sore from staring at the ceiling. The moon was too bright, the air stinging and bitter through his open window, and the birds had started singing. The sound was alien. It was 3am.

Draco threw off his duvet and walked across the boards to the door. He kneeled to pick it up.

It was written on cheap parchment, torn from a book. The ink was Muggle-made.

 _I’m not sorry for what I said,_ it read _. But the offer still stands._

_HJG_

The next bit was written much smaller, as if the words were trying to disappear into the page, as if they were trying so hard not to be written but couldn’t help themselves.

_Ps. I’m forgetting what mine looked like, too._

 

* * *

 

She passed him in the hallway two days later, tugging at the hem of his jumper. He would have had a wand at her throat if the mess of brown hair hadn’t been familiar, the skin so pale and fragile it looked almost see-through to her blue veins.

‘Monday at five p.m.,’ she told him, low and quiet, not looking at him, head barely reaching his shoulders. No one would even notice she was even talking to him, like she’d paused to think where her next class was. ‘You get two hours with her. Only your mother. I tried for your father, but… I tried.’

He should have thanked her at this point – it would have been the only time when it would have been _right_ – but students were ebbing and flowing to afternoon classes, and she was swallowed alive by the stream.

 

* * *

 

‘Do you two ever talk?’ Neville asked her on Monday. Their classes had finished early and they’d ambled into Hogsmeade for lunch. The novelty of the freedom they had as eighth year students had not yet worn off. They trudged through the snow and paused at shop windows and spent an hour in the bookshop, and the companionable silence was blissful.

Hermione didn’t have to ask who Neville was talking about. It was obvious in that slight emphasis on the ‘he’, a slight bitterness that she knew too well. She swallowed a mouthful of hot chocolate, thick and creamy and tasting of coconut.

‘Every day, unfortunately,’ she said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. ‘Although I think _talking_ is a bit generous... It’s more like… We have vague discussions that become arguments and then after the shouting and screaming one of us walks out. And then we do it again.’ Hermione laughed to herself, humourless. ‘It is one of the most pointless, exhausting things I seem to spend my time doing. We're not very nice to each other.'

 _Not that we ever were,_ she thought, but she knew as well that this time the words had a sharpness to them that never used to be there. They were too cutting this time because there was flesh made of memory and horror and war that the knife could get caught on.

Neville was quiet. He ate a forkful of steak and ale pie, the pastry flaky. Madame Rosmerta headed over, hips swaying, and swapped their empty tankards with ones filled with frothy butterbeer. Christmas music jingled through the bar, and the windows had steamed around children’s hand prints and some funny – mostly crude – quips on the glass.

‘You’re not… frightened, though? He hasn’t done anything?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. His wand’s monitored.’

Neville’s look was pointed.

Hermione sighed. ‘He scares me,’ she admitted. ‘About as much as I do him, I expect.’ She glanced at her friend. ‘The things I’ve said to him, Neville…  I’ve been so vile.’

‘He deserves it,’ he said, taking a swig of butterbeer. It missed his mouth a little and he dabbed at his chin with a napkin, vaguely embarrassed, but not in the way anymore that made his face flame and his hands shake and his words come tripping off his tongue. She thought sometimes that perhaps _he_ was the most changed of all of them. In a good way. But he had lost somewhat his ‘Neville-ness’.

She shook her head. ‘Not always. And sometimes… Sometimes I think I like it?’ It felt strange admitting this. Especially to him, always so earnest.

‘The fear?’ he asked carefully.

‘The fighting. The arguing. It’s so fast it makes my head spin. I don’t know what he’s going to say next, where he’s going to strike.’

Neville made a soft sound, like he was understanding. Like it had dawned. ‘Like a battlefield,’ he said softly.

Hermione nodded. She put a hand over her eyes. ‘It sounds awful, doesn’t it?’

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I kind of get it.’

‘You do?’

‘I mean… Not really. I don’t know what you, Harry, and Ron did. I don’t think I want to. But I understand. Sort of.’

She smiled at him – at his failure to understand and his desperation to empathise, if not sympathise. He wanted to know where someone was hurting so he could heal them; why someone laughed so he could help them make that sound again and again.

It struck her how different Malfoy and Neville were. In ways so fundamental it made her shake.

How dark Malfoy’s thoughts were – how black were his desires. And for all her eagerness for goodness and happiness and plain decency sometimes, not even she would want to dig deep enough to help him find that within himself. Not only did she doubt its existence, but she feared more what else she’d find.

 

* * *

  

At 6.30pm, Hermione sat in front of the fire with an almost-finished essay. She had proofread it by 7pm, and finished her corrections by 8pm. Students flittered in and out of the room, and by 9pm most had gone to bed. The mantle had a wreath above it, and the common room smelled lightly of cinnamon, ginger, and something darker and richer, but it was too dimly lit and there were too many tired eyes and slack jaws for there to be much conversation.

It wasn’t until 10pm that she admitted to herself that she was waiting. For him. Not necessarily _for_ _him_ but for his reaction. She knew he’d walk in and sneer at her at her as he passed, going straight to his room. But it would have been worth it. She didn’t know why she wanted that. That glimpse of his hatred that would make her hate him more. But she needed it.

At midnight he hadn’t returned. She’d finished her set reading and her eyes were beginning to close. The log basket was running low, and she didn’t want to move.

She woke up at 3am.

He was sitting in the chair – his chair. The one that she thought was too upright. It was bevelled and studded along the leather arms, and the cushion was hard and unyielding.

Hermione blinked at him; he was watching her. The fire was still burning – he must have added the last few logs – and the flames flickered in his silver eyes.

She looked away first, reaching for her glass of water on the side-table. Her throat felt dry and smoky.

‘You saw her?’ she asked hoarsely.

Malfoy clenched his jaw, like he hoped she wouldn’t speak but knew he would be disappointed anyway. ‘I did.’

‘Is she well?’

‘Not… really.’

Hermione nodded. She didn’t know what she was expecting, or what she wanted to hear. She didn’t realise that she hadn’t wanted it to be this.

‘Are you glad you’ve seen her?’ she asked.

He said, ‘I don’t think so.’

And they fell into silence, fire spitting at wet logs.

Hermione closed her eyes again, felt her mind drifting. She’d made a mess of things. When she opened them again, he had gone.

Grey light leaked from beneath the curtains, and the room was cold.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised today that I had accidentally tagged this story as Draco/Harry. Sorry to disappoint any expectant Drarry fans, but I can promise that there will be no romantic/sexual interaction at all between the two. Apologies for the error! The tag should have been Harry/Ginny.

Things seemed to fall into motion in that last week. Trunks were slowly filled, ribbons tied around carefully taped parcels, Christmas cards finished with sweet flourishes. Mistletoe caught students unawares, ice slipped up unsteady limbs, and the air crept through cracks in the stone, through the keyholes in doors, through the unlatched windows.

Theo shivered against it. He tucked his chin into his scarf; it was thick and bore no emblem or colour. Draco, beside him, wore moody grey and black and sharp, biting white. The napkin in Blaise’s jacket was purple. Pansy’s hair ribbon was red and festive.

Had something drifted from them, Theo wondered, thinking of the green and silver that before they’d worn so boisterously. Had it slipped through the cracks like the bitter wind that howled and beat against the panes?

He sighed, and pulled a sheaf of parchment from his bag.

He wrote a quick note on the corner of a sheet:

 

 

> _What time are you leaving on Friday? Should we have an EGM?_

Hermione’s reply came from the desk behind him. He noted, with faint amusement, that the parchment had somehow been crinkled in transit:

 

 

> _I’ll Apparate after Runes at lunchtime. And what for? We’re not throwing an event in the holidays…_

Theo felt guilty – he’d planned on skipping his last lessons if only to lean against some ancient ruins on the grounds and swig Firewhiskey out of a bottle in a paper bag like they were fourth years. He expected Draco to say no – for Blaise to roll his eyes and Pansy to look at him like he’d lost his mind. But they’d said yes. All with that same strange smile. It was wistful, somehow. They’d been thinking of Fourth Year, too. Of ‘before’. Maybe when things had been easier.

 

 

> _In case we want to plan anything for when we come back. We’ll have mock exams and Valentine’s Day will be shooting us in the neck before we know it._

 

> _Nice imagery. It wouldn’t take us much of an imagination to come up with something. A rose exchange, maybe. Perhaps the choir will do a performance. Valentine’s parties are more of a house thing, aren’t they?_
> 
> _Sounds like you’re trying to shirk duties, Hermione Granger._

 

Her reply was amusingly fast.

 

 

> _You’re not funny. And I see no reason to make something of an event that serves no other purpose than commercialism._

> _That reeks of bitterness._

> _Go away. I’m trying to take notes._

> _So, no meeting?_

> _If you really think we’ll need one then you can call one, Theo. Don’t be surprised if no one turns up. Don’t be too surprised if I don’t._

> _You’ll turn up._

> _I won’t._

* * *

 

She turned up, as he said she would. Of course.

Ginny Weasley made a show, and so did Luna Lovegood. Only one house prefect arrived, and Theo was the only other male representative. And Draco. Draco came.

‘You’re not a prefect, Malfoy,’ Granger told him as he sat down. Slowly. Just in case he’d forgotten.

‘Wishful thinking, Granger.’

‘Uh huh. Well. You’ll need to leave. Student committee members only, I’m afraid.’

He put his chin in his hand. ‘Finally you have a legitimate excuse for excluding someone.’

‘Don’t be an ass,’ Weasley muttered. She couldn’t look at him, and Luna sat small and hidden into her chair, fading into the upholstery.

‘Draco’s coming to mine for Christmas,’ Theo told them. ‘I told him he could come to the meeting. We only need to have a five-minute discussion and… He might even come up with something?’

Draco’s tone was dry. ‘Thanks, Nott. You really lay the compliments on thick.’

Theo rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t be an ass.’

‘I could be drunk right now. I think I have a right.’

‘Shall we begin?’ Hermione cut in. ‘Because I’d really like to leave here within the next twenty minutes.’

Outside, in the hallway, they could hear students shouting and laughing as they headed to their common rooms to fetch their trunks, or to the Great Hall before they were lead to the train. The air was filled with a jubilant, gleeful frenzy that tended to come over students before the holidays. Theo had never been able to put his finger on what it was, but it filled them all with a slight thrum of anticipation, quill twisting in Hermione’s fidgeting fingers, Weasley glancing every so often at the door, like she could see freedom beyond it.

Draco waved a hand. ‘After you, Head Girl.’

Hermione threw him a smile that was not at all pleasant, then dipped a quill into a well of ink. ‘I’m assuming that no one has any pressing issues. If so… Just send them to me in an owl, please, and I’ll send off these minutes next week to McGonagall. Other than that, we just wanted to throw some ideas together for Valentine’s once we’re back.’

‘Is a ball not an idea?’ Weasley asked.

Hermione and Theo exchanged a look.

‘I mean, it’s _fine_ …’ Theo began.

‘It’s just a bit short notice,’ Hermione said. ‘And it can alienate a lot of students. We need to keep this as inclusive as possible.’

‘If you don’t mind my asking—’ Malfoy began.

‘Which I do.’

'—what do you mean by alienating?’

Hermione rubbed at her temples. ‘Not many students are couples. They aren’t all heterosexual. Some don’t like the whole dressing up and slow-dancing thing. It’s just… I think that sort of thing should be reserved for the Triwizard Tournament when the focus isn’t relationships and romanticism. It makes it more special that way.’

Draco was frowning. ‘Why not just let students keep to their own devices, then?’

Hermione looked at Theo again. ‘I said that, but Theo thought we should do something for the event.’

Theo shrugged. ‘If only to show that we’re making an effort. And besides, I wanted to see if anyone else had any thoughts.’

‘I like the roses that are usually given,’ Luna offered. ‘They’re sweet and…’ She looked at Malfoy in a way that made Theo want to laugh. ‘Inoffensive.’

Ginny raised a hand. ‘I agree. Let people do what they want. No committee-led events, just some roses or chocolates that people can ask to send to students and let them get on with it in their houses or friend groups.’

Hermione nodded. ‘All in agreement?’ she asked, looking around the table. Some nodded, some just shrugged. ‘Right then. Thank you for the shortest EGM in the history of EGM’s, and I hope you all have a Merry Christmas.’

‘You too, Granger!’ Malfoy called as she walked out the room.

Theo decided she had probably just not heard him.

 

* * *

 

Hermione Apparated to Grimmauld Place. She had not given a backwards glance to the Scottish castle, and the thought did not make her heart twinge as much as she thought it should.

Her bags were stacked in her bedroom, dark, dimly lit, the furniture covered in a layer of dust.

She could have cast a spell, waved her wand, but instead she took her time. Hermione drew the curtains and opened the windows. It had snowed in London the night before, so early this year, but now the sky was startlingly blue and the snow was ice-white. There wasn’t a mark in the sky; Hermione’s breath swirled about her in the room.

She found a damp cloth and ran it over the surfaces of her chest-of-drawers and vanity table. She stripped the bed of its sheets and folded over new ones. She dusted every book; the knobs on the end of the bed frame; the door handles, and swept the creaking floorboards with a brush.

Sweat had formed on her brow, and she realised she was breathing a little heavily.

‘You can do my room if you want?’ a voice said.

She turned, and grinned at Harry as he came forward with his arms open.

‘I don’t think I’d survive,’ Hermione said. She squeezed him tightly. He smelled of home.

‘True,’ Harry replied. ‘Third year Care of Magical Creatures all over again.’

‘Although probably less magical.’

‘Again, true.’ He looked her over. ‘Did you get here okay?’

Hermione leaned the broom against the wall and sat on the edge of her newly made bed. Harry rested his hip against the chest-of drawers.

‘I am thankfully un-spliced,’ she said. ‘I sent my bags this morning, ahead of time.’ The more you travelled with, the more dangerous Apparition became. Carrying a person with you was another matter entirely.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked. ‘Mrs Weasley dropped over some cottage pie yesterday.’

‘I can’t believe she’s still feeding you,’ Hermione said, reaching over and pulling her bedroom window shut. It didn’t stop her from following him to the kitchen.

It was surprisingly clean – dishes drying on the draining board, the counters wiped clean, the kitchen table cluttered only with a glass and a few papers. Hermione spied a few Ministry stamps on the sheets, and Harry shoved them in a draw with a guilty smile.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t really bring this home.’

‘Do you need any help with anything?’ Hermione asked. She found the pie in the fridge, and spooned generous amounts into two bowls before putting them in the microwave for a few minutes. She’d bought it for the three of them as a housewarming present, when the boys signed up to the Ministry, and Hermione replied to the letter from McGonagall, and they realised they now had a place that the three of them might be able to call ‘home’. ‘As tempting as that offer is,’ Harry said, ‘you’ve got enough on your plate, and I’m bound by confidentiality.’

Hermione shrugged. ‘That’s all right.’ She glanced around the kitchen. ‘Where’s Ron?’

‘He’s at the shop,’ he said. ‘George is getting the last Christmas stock in and needed a hand. I would have gone too, but I thought one of us should be here for when you get back.’

‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Hermione said. She filled a jug with water and set it on the table with two cups, two spoons, and a handful of napkins.

‘I wanted to.’ He sat down as the microwave pinged, and Hermione pulled the bowls out with a tea towel before putting them on the table.

‘It’s hot,’ she warned him.

‘Yes, Mum.’

Hermione laughed. At first because of his tone, and then because of how familiar it was.

The thought of that conversation sent a shiver down her spine. _You sound like my mother_.

She wondered. What was Malfoy doing that Christmas. Theo had said he was staying with his family, but how strange that must be – sitting at a strange table, with strange people. Granted, they weren’t _strangers_ , but they weren’t his family. To think of Narcissa huddled in her cell against the cold, and Lucius trying to keep his chin up and bruised back against the wall. How would he be able to stomach food – thinking of his parents like that?

What must it have been like for Theo too? Hermione knew little of what had happened to the Nott’s, but she doubted his father would have been granted any reprieve from a sentence.

‘Your food’s going to go cold,’ Harry said, interrupting her train-wrecked thoughts. He’d half-finished his.

Hermione smiled at him. She reached a hand across the table and touched his. ‘I’m glad we’re here. Together. For Christmas. I’m grateful that I have people to spend it with.’

Harry looked at her carefully. He put his spoon down with a quiet _clang_. ‘Are you all right?’

She nodded quickly. ‘Absolutely fine,’ she said. ‘I’ve just missed you both. That’s all.’

Harry looked at her over the rim of his cup as drank. He settled it back on the table and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s going to be hard this year,’ he said, and he wasn’t just talking about her losses – about _their_ losses. He was talking about the way people were struggling to rub two Sickles together. The way there’d be hundreds of empty chairs at the dining table. The way mothers and fathers would hunch over the stove and friends would lock themselves in the bathroom and they’d all _try_ to pretend like they weren’t crying when everyone knew that they were.

Hermione only made a quiet sound of agreement.

 

* * *

 

Harry helped put her things away; he hung her clothes up in the wardrobe, folded them away in the drawers, stacked her books on the small bookshelf above her desk, and helped her cast little lights that flickered around the room like fairies. They stepped back and admired the work like it was a Picasso.

The evening that followed was a quiet affair: Harry lit the fire; Kreacher muttered about the house and made them dinner. Ron arrived once the sky was black, lit by street lamps and the headlights of double-decker buses and irrational taxis. She couldn't see the stars when she looked out the window.

‘You're very quiet,’ Ron said as they ate. He dished new potatoes onto his plate and drowned them in parsley sauce. His mother had sent it over in a jar with a ribbon around it.

‘It's the travelling,’ Harry said. ‘Not many people Apparate from Scotland with a clear head at the end.’

‘There used to be a ban, didn't there?’

‘They lifted it a few years ago,’ Hermione said. She recognised his attempts to draw something out of her. The change in environment was jarring; she’d mellowed into the castle walls with its cold drafts and too-big beds, and now she had somewhere new for two weeks – or not ‘new’, but different. ‘You’re evaluated when you pass your test, though.’ Hermione offered Ron a half-smile. ‘I’m not sure you passed the long-distance section.’

He looked mildly alarmed. ‘What if I tried?’

‘It wouldn’t work.’

‘Well…’ Harry started. His glance at Hermione over the edge of his glasses was wry. ‘I don’t know if that’s _definitely_ the case. Why don’t you have a go?’

Ron went a little red. ‘I think I’d rather not, thank you very much.’

‘Go on,’ Harry said. ‘What harm can it do?’

‘I’m not even going to _think_ about it.’

 

* * *

  

Three hours later, they stood around the fire. Hermione watched Ron through heavy eyes. He held his wand away from him, and Harry was grinning.

‘Ready?’ he said.

‘I swear to Merlin, Harry,’ Ron said. ‘If I die…’

‘We’ll pray for you over dinner at your Mum’s next week.’

‘Oi!’

Harry laughed. ‘ _Come on._ Haven’t got all day. Hermione’s about to fall asleep on her feet here!’

‘We can’t all be as erratic as you at midnight,’ Hermione murmured. She was used to starting essays at this time. To settling down with a cup of coffee as she pulled crumpled notes from the bottom of her bag and began to write them out afresh. But tonight something had clicked – the realisation that she could turn off for a while without repercussions. That she could sleep in the morning – through the morning – until it started getting dark again outside and she’d wake up not knowing where she was. She could miss the whole presence of the sun if she’d wanted.

‘Okay,’ Ron said. He had that sound in his voice. The ‘no one’s going to stop me now’ sound that had crept out at some point last year. ‘I’m ready,’ he said.

‘Off you go,’ said Harry.

And off he went.

Harry and Hermione stood in silence for a moment, staring at the Ron-shaped nothingness in front of them. And then they looked at each other.

‘Think he did it?’ Hermione asked.

Harry grinned. ‘Nah. He’s probably standing in the middle of the Peak District.’

‘It’s close enough,’ Hermione said.

Harry made an ‘eh’ sound.

‘He’ll be all right, won’t he?’ she said. She was too tired to worry about the particulars. Or to think too deeply about the stupidity of the situation.

‘Probably. Give it a few hours and he’ll be back.’

‘What if he freezes?’ she asked, sinking into an armchair and pulling a knitted throw around herself. It smelled of smoke from the fire and cinnamon from a candle that flickered on the hearth.

‘He’s got a wand,’ Harry said. He sat on the sofa and rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. ‘He can still use it – just won’t be able to travel long distances for a while.’

‘Don’t tell Molly we’ve done this,’ Hermione said. She shut her eyes. They felt sore and dry and she could already feel sleep tugging at her.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ he said. ‘She’ll find out some way, though.’

If Hermione had been awake, she would have agreed.

 

* * *

 

He came back at 3am, cold and tired and sodden. Ron pulled his jumper off, collapsed onto the remaining sofa with his shivering limbs flailing, and tucked himself into the blanket draped over the back of it.

Harry’s teeth were shining in the dark. He was silent, but Hermione could _feel_ him laughing.

And Ron said, ‘Shut up, Harry.’


	9. Chapter 9

Christmas didn’t feel like Christmas that year. But Hermione wondered if it ever had – if Christmas ever really felt like anything, but she was just always expecting it to be something different because everyone else did.

The food was fantastic; Fleur and Angela had helped Mrs Weasley so she didn’t feel burdened. George bought Teddy a miniature dragon, and his laughter and the flashing colour of his bundle of curly hair and his big _big_ eyes were worth hours of entertainment. 

But Molly kept slipping into the kitchen during dinner without a word and came out emptyhanded and red-eyed, and George would fall silent in the middle of a conversation, like he was waiting for someone to finish his sentence, and Teddy would start crying – only for a few seconds – and then stop, like he didn’t know why he’d started but didn’t really know how he’d stopped. It was like they all remembered in glimpses. In fleeting breaths. As if they were clock hands that stopped and started in judders and quiet, awkward tremors. And it was heart-breaking to watch.

The music started playing again from the phonograph, and someone brought out a bottle of brandy – probably Charlie – and Hermione left the table between the roast turkey and dessert. She sat on the bed in the guest room until Harry came to find her.

‘I got a bit lost,’ she said. She glanced at him; he filled the doorway. And it was almost true. The Weasley’s new house _was_ as convoluted and mind boggling as the last. ‘And then a bit tired.’

Harry nodded. ‘Budge over,’ he said.

Hermione budged. They scooted backwards until their heads pressed against the wall, so hard it hurt a little, and if she rolled her head she could hear her skull moving. She forgot she was a sum of parts. Sometimes she felt like she was headless, or only a head – some integral part of her wholly detached from the rest.

The clock on the bedside was loud, arms jerking. It dinged when it got to 4pm. It was dark outside already.

‘Dinner was lovely,’ Hermione commented. Had to say something.

‘Excellent Yorkshires,’ Harry agreed.

‘Shame about the parsnips.’

‘Mm. Bit hard, weren’t they?’

‘They were,’ Hermione said.

‘We can’t tell Molly.’

‘No, we mustn’t.’

Harry paused. ‘D’you want some trifle?’ he asked.

‘I probably should.’

At this, Harry shrugged. ‘Don’t feel like you _should_ do anything. You can if you _want_ to.’

‘I’m not sure I know the difference between desire and obligation, you know.’

Harry snorted. ‘You never have, Hermione,’ he said. ‘But, if I’m honest, I don’t think you’ve ever really done anything if part of you didn’t want to. Because when you _haven’t_ wanted to… Well. We’ve all known about _that_.’

She hit him lightly on the arm. ‘It’s Christmas. You’re supposed to be nice. Good will to all men. And women.’

‘I’m always nice,’ he said indignantly. ‘Today’s my day off.’

 

* * *

 

‘I’ve been speaking with Malfoy,’ Hermione said, lying flat on the sofa, her feet propped up on the arm. It was late, and they were too full and the day had been a bit much, but Hermione couldn’t sleep, so they sat in the Weasleys’ living room with a fire lit. Harry and Ron were still drinking whiskey and Hermione sipped at a glass of cinnamon flavoured liqueur. She wasn’t sure she liked it, but it made her feel warm, and it let her say things she didn’t have the courage to anymore.

‘Okay,’ Harry said, sitting on the floor by the fireplace, cross-legged, a bit hunched.

And, ‘About what?’ Ron added. He had somehow folded himself into Mr Weasley’s old armchair, but his limbs were too long and he didn’t quite fit.

She shrugged, picked at the clear varnish on her nails. They needed filing. The cold air had made them brittle. ‘Nothing much.’

Harry scratched his head. ‘We know, Hermione,’ he said.

She pushed herself into her elbows, stared at Harry where he sat on the floor by the fireplace, cross-legged. ‘What do you mean, _you_ _know_?’

‘Neville told us.’

She looked back and forth between them. ‘And you didn't think to pass a comment?’

‘We wanted to see if you would first,’ Harry said. ‘To see if it meant that much to you that you'd tell us.’

‘It means nothing to me,’ she snapped.

Ron looked away, but Harry nodded. ‘Okay then,’ he said.

Hermione didn’t want him to say that. She wanted him to be angry; she wanted Ron to start shouting so that this feeling of _wrong wrong wrong_ matched the dysphoria that crawled over her skin when she thought about him and said his name and looked at him and didn’t think of hatred.

‘The more I hate him,’ Hermione said, ‘the more I start to see myself in him.’

Harry’s eyes went wide in alarm. ‘Hermione, I swear to god. You are _nothing_ like him.’

‘She kind of is, Harry,’ Ron said, and she felt a stab of pain. He wasn’t _supposed_ to take her side. ‘They're both proud, both stubborn. They both have this… immaculate temper.’

‘Oh _, of course_ ,’ Harry commented dryly. ‘Match made in heaven.’

‘Well,’ Ron said. ‘No. I mean. He's still a racist piece of shit. Doesn't mean you can't share character traits. You’re probably like Umbridge in some small way, Harry.’

‘I _beg_ your pardon?’ Harry replied, and his tone said that he was only half-joking.

‘But just because you share them doesn't mean you're the same person,’ Ron continued. ‘It doesn't mean you act the same way or think the same things. They're just reactions - or like, _reflections_ of us. We use them in different ways.’

‘You’re being surprisingly deep,’ Hermione muttered. She pushed herself up so she was sitting, so her neck didn’t hurt to look at them both.

‘Yeah?’ Ron said. ‘I guess people find all ways of surprising us sometimes. I mean, you’re the one fucking Malfoy.’

Hermione felt her mouth opening and closing; her mind was blank like the silence before a star exploded. ‘ _Excuse me_?’ she whispered.

Ron looked at Harry. ‘Isn’t she?’

‘I… don’t think so, Ron?’ Harry said. He looked as confused as she felt.

‘Then why the hell is it a big deal that you’re _talking_ to him?’ Ron said. ‘I’ve said hello to him once or twice in the Ministry but I don’t feel some sort of… obligation to tell either of you? I don’t get what’s bothering you so much.’

‘Ron,’ Harry said quietly. ‘I think it’s a bit different. If you really think about it. _Hard_.’

But Hermione just said, ‘Why has he been in the Ministry?’

Ron frowned. He looked from Harry to Hermione, side-tracked. ‘Well, he’s the one that got the placement, isn’t he?’ he said.

She blanked for a moment, star-lit again.

Then: _Of course_ he did.

Of course it would be Malfoy. Wouldn’t it.

Because losing to Theo would hurt. But it would be the disappointment of ‘oh, never mind – someone better got it’. Not this. This had him written all over it.

He’d be falling asleep with a grin on his face. Casting glances at her and biding his time. When to tell her: When would hurt the most? Christmas Day? New Year? The day they finished Hogwarts? Never? A dirty little secret that he kept only for him because for once – for _once_ – he’d beaten her.

And maybe this made up for a sliver of his own failures as she stained his floorboards red and as his hand shook against his own wizened headmaster. At last the dark side gained against her in a way that would sort of hurt more. Because this wasn’t about blood or heritage. This was sheer capability and intelligence and raw _power_. Who could do the job better? Who deserved it more? And for once this wasn’t her. But it hurt more that just this once it was _him_.

‘We thought you knew,’ Harry was saying. He was crouching in front of her, hands gripping at her forearms a little too tightly. 

‘I didn’t,’ she said, blinking slowly. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She wondered if their argument had been a charade. If his ‘other people deserve it more’ spiel was real. Was he talking about himself then? Did he know he’d succeeded? Or did he just want to hear her admit – no matter how indirectly – that he was better than her?

‘Hermione, I’m sorry,’ Ron said. ‘I thought you knew. I’m sorry for saying that you and him were… You know.’

‘Fucking? Thanks, Ron,’ she said distantly. ‘I really appreciate that.’

‘Hermione—’

‘All right,’ Harry interrupted. ‘I think we should go to bed. It’s late. We’re all tired. Everyone else is probably sleeping.’

‘I’m going into London tomorrow,’ Hermione told them.

‘What?’ Harry said, at the same time Ron said, ‘With who?’

‘None of your business,’ she said. And it _was_ none of their business. How freeing to know that she didn’t have to tell everyone everything for once. She remembered, in the hours that she felt tired and dark and more lonely than alone, that at least she didn’t have to explain herself all the time. She remembered that her actions didn’t need their verbal permission slips.

And, when she got up from the sofa and headed upstairs to the guest bedroom, their waking silence said that they seemed to have remembered that too.

 

* * *

 

It was quiet in London for Boxing Day. But then it tended to be when the sun hadn’t yet risen. The pavements were slick with ice, and grit cracked underfoot.  Some Muggles stumbled past, cold air chasing off the alcohol on their breath. Most were sleeping off the food and the drink in warm beds, fire embers not yet dead, dirty plates stacked high in the sink, and fridges stuffed with left-over turkey and vegetables and an astounding amount of pudding and trifle and Christmas cake doused in too much brandy. 

The street Christmas lights flickered above, shocked by the usual power outages, and half-awake shop managers were getting ready to open the stores before the madness of the Boxing Day sales hit.

She walked out of the highstreets, until roads turned to familiar cobbled streets, and the streetlights seemed farther away.

When she found the graveyard, the wrought iron gates had been decorated with lights, and the gravestones were littered with fresh wreaths and poinsettias.

Hermione had to kneel when she found them, and she wiped the snow and the ice from their stone until her hand was red and raw. She’d forgotten her gloves, and her knees were beginning to ache from the snow soaking her jeans.

Was this how Harry had felt? she wondered. A year and a day ago. This bizarre, ultra-surreal realisation that her _parents_ lay beneath her. Under this earth. With only a stone marker and the flowers in her hand for anyone to realise that they were there.

She put a photo of them in front of the stone. They were in their thirties in the photo – late for parents of a five-year-old – but then they were dentists, and until they’d been to university and had years of work and started their own practice, a child had to wait. In the picture she wore a pyjama suit that was soft as fur, and it had a hood on it in the shape of rabbit ears. They used to put her in it before bed, and until she was in her teens and old enough to recognise her teeth, when they called her “bunny” she had never knew of any other endearment so wholly filled with love.

Their life hadn’t reversed; her birth certificate hadn’t re-appeared, and she didn’t come back to life in the drawings of her family she’d made when she was eight. She was still a non-entity to them when they died. But one photo remained. She’d made copies and kept the silver memory of it in a vial. She hoped it was them holding onto her, desperate not to forget her, and she was desperate for it not to be an anomaly or a fluke of magic.

‘Hi, Mum,’ she said. ‘Hi, Dad. I hope you had a nice Christmas.’ She thought she should have felt something more as she stared at the engraving of their names. ‘Mine could have been better,’ she admitted, ‘but it was nice to see everyone.’ Hermione rubbed at her running nose and her watering eyes; the cold was painful. ‘You would have liked them. I think you met them at the station once, or in Diagon Alley. They were the big family. Lots of red hair. So funny.’ She smiled. ‘A bit mad. Well, maybe not Percy. I don’t know if I told you about Charlie? He’s the one that keeps dragons. He was there for Harry’s tournament.’

She told them all about it, like they hadn’t heard at some point. She re-enacted parts of her life, of all her years spent working so hard. It had been mostly for herself, because that’s what they’d told her to do, but also partly for them, because that’s what felt more important.

She told them about Krum, about her split with Ron. She told them about her placement application – leaving out Malfoy – and about being Head Girl. She told them about the war, and about Crookshanks, and about Grimmauld Place.

‘I’m sorry you’re not here to see it,’ she told them. ‘I would have loved to show it to you all when it was over. I know it was sometimes… a bit much? But I think sometimes coming home was a bit too much. You knew that, though. It felt like my senses had been dulled.’ Hermione swallowed. ‘I’m so… _grateful_ that you recognised that. That you recognised _me_.’

She bit into her cheek, and shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat until they felt like they were on fire.

‘I _really_ wish you were here,’ she whispered, and had to clear her throat, because it was too thick and it hurt and her eyes were running so much because it was just so cold. ‘I’m finding things a bit hard at the moment.’ And then Hermione kissed her fingers – touched them to the top of the stone. ‘Love you both,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you again soon.’


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione went to Diagon Alley before leaving. It didn’t have the smoke and chimney innocence of Hogsmeade, with kindly faces and a singular teashop and thatched roofs. It was so much bigger, sharper, rougher. It held everything that at one point she had thought she needed – books, wands, herbs and artefacts and robes. But it was only now that she needed _it_ – the whole thing: a place where she recognised herself in the dirty alleyways and the scuffs of people’s shoes and the pristine artisan shops and click of the Gringott’s Bank marble floor. Sometimes in Hogsmeade she felt fake, like she was pretending to be a part of the scenery. But in Diagon Alley she could put her hood up and sink into the background and feel almost like the small city – easy to forget it extended far beyond one cobbled street – was her.

She bought nothing but breakfast from a small café that hosted pixies drinking honeysuckle and a werewolf eating a steak that bled onto the table. A few witches and wizards wandered in and out – coffee to go, a pastry filled with almonds that felt like glitter in one’s mouth, and leftover mince pies.

She ordered a pot of tea and a few pieces of fresh bread with jam and butter. The jam had too many seeds in, and the butter had other people’s crumbs in that she had to scrape off.

‘Do you want a tasseography?’ the waitress asked, arranging her cup and a small silver strainer that had a chip in the handle.

Hermione blinked at her. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Your tea leaves. We offer a free reading with every pot of tea.’

‘Oh,’ Hermione said. ‘No. Thanks.’

The waitress shrugged, her purple bob shifting. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said, heading to another table.

‘She told me I was a piece of shit. Didn’t even look at the leaves.’

Hermione didn’t have to turn around to put a face to the voice. She gritted her teeth. She hated him for nothing else in that moment than that he was ruining a morning that was supposed to be hers and hers alone, with everyone and everything on the periphery. He was edging dangerously close to the centre.

Hermione stirred a cube of brown sugar into her tea, and then a splash of milk. She said, ‘I don’t think anyone needs to look at tea leaves to know that about you, Malfoy.’

‘I’m flattered.’

Hermione turned.

He was, quite typically, leaning against the glass counter. Always leaning and intruding and touching what wasn’t his, as if he had to put his mark and let the world hold him up. He wore a three-piece suit and a long black coat. His gloves were leather. She could almost see her reflection in his shoes.

‘Going to the ballet?’ she asked.

‘Hunting, actually,’ he said. ‘Some friends are in London from Durmstrang.’

‘Hunting.’

‘Fox hunting,’ he said. ‘On horses. It’s a Muggle thing. I thought you’d have known.’

‘People usually wear something a bit more suited to, you know, _riding horses_.’

He looked down at himself, as if he didn’t know what he’d been dressed in that morning. ‘We’ll have lunch first. It wouldn’t do to run about and kill things on an empty stomach.’

She curled her lip. ‘You’re barbaric.’

‘Fuck off, Granger.’

‘Gladly,’ she said, not in the mood for his brand of cruelty right then. She stood and threw down a handful of coins on the table that would have been more than enough for three people. Her toast was uneaten and tea left to go cold on the table. She was halfway across the street when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

‘Don’t you _dare_ touch me,’ she spat, yanking away from him. From his leather glove, his long fingers, his touch that was so damned intrusive.

He held his hands up. ‘Steady on,’ he said. ‘You forgot your coat.’ He had it draped over his arm, as if he were carrying it for her. As if he were being a gentleman.

She pulled it from his grip and hastily put it on. It was quilted and navy and her mother had bought it for her a few Christmases ago. She hated how it seemed loose on her now. The zip got stuck a few times before she managed to yank it up and pull the hood over her head.

‘You’re not going to say thank you?’ Malfoy asked, his hands in his pockets. He looked unreal; mist curled up from the ground as the early-morning sun hit the icy cobbles, swarming around him as he stood in his suit like a Victorian aristocrat. His hair looked even more platinum than normal, and some small part of her was worried that he’d be seen – perhaps more that she’d be seen with him. He stood out the way a pristine Classical statue placed in the middle of a mildly run-down London street would.

‘I _did_ thank you,’ Hermione said.

‘Er, no. You didn’t actually, Granger.’

‘Whatever.’

He laughed. ‘You’re ridiculous.’

‘ _I’m_ ridiculous?’ She turned and headed down the street. It was getting busy, and she had to slip past people and avoid hustling couriers and shoppers with determination painted on their faces.

‘Good Christmas?’ Malfoy asked her.

She almost stopped, but Merlin-forbid if she let him ruin her morning. The thought that Malfoy was trying to make conversation with her made her skin crawl. ‘What do you want, Malfoy? Haven’t you got somewhere to be?’

He came up beside her, long legs matching her strides too easily. Malfoy glanced at his watch, a flash, complicated thing on his pale wrist. ‘Not for a few hours,’ he said. ‘We’re only meeting in Chelsea, anyway.’

Hermione sniffed. ‘Of course you are.’

‘It’s hardly my fault I have different social circles to you,’ was his reply.

‘Well, nothing ever is your fault, is it?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Hermione paused in front of a shop window. It was a shop that didn’t really sell anything – made up to look pretty with expensive price-tags, and everything in white. Inside, they sold candles and little pieces of jewellery and wooden boards with cursive quotations that glittered like diamonds. Keep-sakes and gifts for the sake of gifts. She hated how much she loved them.

Inside, Hermione picked up a bracelet. It was a silver, ornate, 1920s-esque little thing that clasped neatly around her wrist.

‘That’s nice,’ Malfoy said.

He stood close enough behind her that she thought she could almost feel the cotton of his coat, and smell the aftershave he wore. She bit her cheek and stepped forward, putting the bracelet quickly back on the shelf.

‘You’re not buying it?’ he asked.

‘It’s about fifty galleons,’ she said.

‘And?’

She rubbed her forehead. ‘You’re so ignorant sometimes it’s quite unbelievable.’

‘I’m sorry?’ He sat in a chair, leg crossed over his knee. Hermione expected it was for sale and had probably had a ‘no sitting’ sign on it at some point before they walked in.

She shook her head, and picked up a scented candle that smelled of burning logs. ‘What do you want, Malfoy?’

‘That’s a very broad question.’

‘I’ll narrow it down for you,’ she snapped. She put the candle down hard, and the dresser it was on shook. The shopkeeper wandered over, unhappy frown on his face, but one look at the pair – at Hermione’s wild curls and clenched fists, and at Malfoy and everything that was _him_ – and he backed slowly towards the till. ‘Why are you _here_? Why are you following me? Why are you being such a pain in the fucking _neck_?’

‘No need to be rude,’ Malfoy said. He wasn’t smiling, but his posture was too languid. It reeked of totally unwarranted superiority.

She took a deep breath. ‘I think there is _every_ need. Now leave. Me. Alone.’

He rested his cheek against his hand, elbow on the arms of the chair. It was a ridiculous chair, glittery white, padded with silver silk and studded with glass-like jewels. He should have looked ridiculous in it.

Hermione took a step towards him. Her voice was low. ‘I don’t actually give a _fuck_ why you’re here, Malfoy. I want to be alone. I want some time to myself. I don’t need you breathing down my neck when I could be, for just _two weeks_ , thousands of miles away from you if I wanted.’ The oddness of the whole situation was hitting her abruptly. She stood up straight. ‘Where’s Theo?’ she said. ‘You’re meant to be staying with him, aren’t you?’

‘Only until Christmas Day,’ Malfoy said. He was inspecting his nails.

‘Had too much of you have they?’ she asked, and she couldn’t have been more serious. She had to endure his voice and his face and his overt prejudice for a few hours each day. But it wasn’t living with him. It wasn’t having his presence seeping into every part of her life. Hermione thought she’d throw herself off the Astronomy Tower if she ever had to endure that. Her heart wouldn’t take the stress – his constant goading, their constant bickering, the way his words sometimes hit so hard that she’d lie awake at night with them spinning around her head, and when he’d look at her the next day, she’d have to pretend that the eyebags weren’t because of him. She had to pretend that words couldn’t actually hurt, and especially not his. 

‘They’ve gone away, actually. Skiing in France.’

‘And they didn’t let you tag along?’

His face twisted in distaste. ‘I don’t _tag along_ , Granger.’

‘Of course you don’t.’

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. ‘You know you keep making these little _digs_ about how I spend my life and they’re really starting to get quite goddamned _boring_ , Granger.’

She laughed at him. At him. Until her eyes started to water and his face grew so much more angered. ‘You’re fucking hilarious, Malfoy,’ she said, coughing. ‘You really really are.’

‘Care to let me in on the joke?’ he asked slowly, sardonic.

‘It’s just—’ She wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her coat. ‘You’re getting irritated by _me_. Because I make comments about how much money you’ve got. About your ridiculous wealth and your pretentiousness. And – the thing is – you can’t really help that, can you? It’s how you were brought up. You were just… what’s the phrase? _Born into it_?’

The look on his face seemed to suggest that he knew _exactly_ where this was going.

‘But every time you made a comment about my _genetics_ , you told me to ‘lighten up’. You expected me to take it. To – to _accept_ it. And you couldn’t understand how I couldn’t _get_ that. That I wasn’t meant to be a part of your world. That I was a piece of shit on the bottom of your five-hundred Galleon shoes. So I’m _sorry_ if I’ve made comments about the kind of person you are and about things that you can’t help and that are just _how you live_ , but you know what? I’m _really_ not sorry. At all.’

A hush, and then Malfoy cleared his throat. ‘Are you finished?’ he said.

After all of that, she couldn’t even be angry at his dismissal, because at least he’d had to sit there and just listen. He didn’t just walk away and never get to hear her.

‘Yes, I’m finished,’ she said. She paused. ‘Actually no, I’m not.’

‘Fucking hell,’ Malfoy muttered.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Hermione asked. She shoved her clenched fists into her pocket.

He looked at her blankly. ‘Tell you what?’

She gritted her teeth. ‘That you got the placement.’

His look didn’t change. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking—’

‘Don’t _lie_ to me, Malfoy. You’re a piece of shit but you’re not much of a liar.’ _His only redeeming quietly_ , she thought.

He shrugged. ‘I’m not lying. If you want to believe what you want, then go ahead. I’m not going to try and change your mind.’

Hermione frowned. She couldn’t understand why he didn’t just tell her. She’d called him out on it now – what was the point in ignoring it now? Why not start goading? She didn’t know if she even wanted to know if he was telling the truth.

‘It must be a really sad life to have no one believe a word that comes out of your mouth anymore,’ she told him.

He just grinned at her, just a blank flash of white teeth. There was nothing remotely amused, or remotely happy about it – no meaning in it at all – and when Hermione left the shop, and Apparated out of Diagon Alley, she imagined that he was probably acutely aware that she could see that.

 

* * *

 

December slipped into January, and New Year’s day erupted with fireworks that made Crookshanks hide under the bed and Teddy wouldn’t stop crying. Hermione watched them from the guest room; she had to look away at the red and green ones. The Weasley’s stood outside, huddled together against the winter air, holding sparklers. George was standing slightly apart from everyone; he held his wand loosely in his hand, and let everyone’s faces bloom in sparks of light in the sky. Hermione picked out her own. It smiled in a way she could not remember ever having done.

She pulled Teddy close to her, and he tugged on her hair. He was so soft and warm.

‘Scary, isn’t it?’ she said, watching the lights reflect on the window. ‘I used to be scared of them when I was little. And then I got better. But then they got louder – _boom boom_ – and I think I’m a little girl again.’

Teddy made a noise; she had no idea what it was meant to be. His eyes were wide – purple tonight – and they looked at her in something close to awe. Sometimes she looked at him and wished she were him, learning everything new again, getting to re-write her life. She worried he’d be like Harry, sometimes, but then she’d remember the cupboard under that stairs.

The night Mad-Eye died, she’d wandered around the Dursley’s house, endlessly thinking, ‘This is where he _lived_.’ And now she looked at the faces in the sky, and the huddled bodies down below as they laughed and smiled and pointed towards the stars, and she remember that Teddy would never have to grow up like Harry. He’d be surrounded by people that loved him. His childhood would be the most serene and loved youth that ever was.

‘Happy New Year,’ Hermione whispered. She kissed him on the forehead, held him tighter in her arms.

A door opened behind her, and Harry and Ron walked into the nursery. They wrapped their arms around her until she felt warm and enveloped and detached from herself.

‘Happy New Year,’ they told her. Hermione passed Teddy over to Harry, and he took him carefully. His little hands reached for Harry’s glasses, which he let him take.

‘I really hope this one is,’ Hermione said. ‘Because eight years of bull… _Rubbish_ is really tiring.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Harry said. Ron nodded from where he perched on the windowsill. There was a tired smile on his face that said exactly what they were all feeling.

‘I’m going to go back to Hogwarts early,’ Hermione told them.

‘What?’ Ron said. ‘Why?’

She tugged at the sleeves of her jumper. ‘I feel… out of place here,’ she admitted.

‘Have we done something?’ Harry said. Because he would blame himself. Always.

‘ _No_ ,’ she insisted. ‘Of course not. But you’ll be back to work tomorrow, and everyone goes back to their lives. I just want to do the same.’

‘But… _This_ is your life,’ Ron said. The confusion on his face was as loud as if he’d screamed it.

‘It’s a part of it,’ Hermione said. ‘You know what it’s like. You settle into normalcy and then you’re launched back out of it. And besides,’ she said, ‘I’ve got exams when I get back. The castle will be quiet. I can revise in peace.’

‘Hermione,’ Harry said. He put Teddy in the cot – Ginny had slept in it last so many years ago. She’d been touring over the holidays, travelling through Europe and the US competing in the U21 International Quidditch Tournaments. She’d sent a Christmas card, and her face floated in the fireplace after Christmas dinner with a bright smile on her face and a wink at Harry. Everyone was too happy to see _her_ happy for that brief moment than to truly miss her. ‘You _know_ you’re welcome with us. You know that, right?’

‘Harry, please understand that this isn’t about you. Or you,’ she said to Ron. ‘This will make me happy.’

They seemed to struggle with this. Not with her prospective happiness, but with whether she was telling the truth. They doubted her just as much as she doubted herself.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, smiling. Lying. ‘Promise.’

But when she said her goodbyes to them the following day, standing on the steps of Grimmauld Place, the dark terraced house looming behind them, they weren’t smiling. They waved at her, hands raised silently at their sides. It was dark and snowing and the streetlamps were flickering.

‘Take care of yourself,’ Harry told her, but all he seemed to be saying was, ‘I’m worried about you.’

‘You too,’ Hermione said, and Ron’s freckled face and Harry’s dark hair and Grimmauld Place and the whole of London spun around her until it vanished into a black spec.  


	11. Chapter 11

Hermione stumbled onto the Hogwarts’ grounds with a head full of cotton, bile stinging her throat. Spots swam in front of her, and it took five minutes of wet, icy grass staining her jeans with her head between her knees until the sickness subsided. Her skin felt hot to the touch.

The moon shone white and brilliant, and she wandered into the castle, shivering. Dinner had just finished; students shot her curious looks as they emerged from the Great Hall and wandered to their common rooms.

‘Miss Granger!’ a sharp voice called.

Hermione smiled warmly as Professor McGonagall approached. ‘Professor,’ she said to the Headmistress. ‘Happy New Year.’

‘And to you. Did you have a good Christmas?’

‘Yes. Thank you. And yours?’

The Headmistress waved a hand. ‘It was what it was,’ she said. ‘But very good to feel at home here once again during the festive period.’ She looked Hermione up and down. ‘We did not expect to see you here so soon.’

Hermione laughed awkwardly. She brushed a hand over muddied jeans and let a flash of magic clean them. ‘Neither did I,’ she admitted. ‘I needed to come back though.’

Professor McGonagall was quiet for a moment, and then: ‘I understand, Miss Granger,’ she said. Her words were so heavy. ‘A few other students have wandered back over the past few days. You are not alone in the sentiment.’

Hermione bit her lip. ‘I’m not sure if it’s a good thing.’

‘Oh, I think it most definitely is. I am only pleased that these walls can provide some solace to lost students yet again. My only hope is that they will also _find_ themselves here, too.’

The plates in the Great Hall had disappeared, and the candles now flickered and burned low. They could no longer hear the footsteps of students, and the corridors were hushed.

‘Soon,’ Hermione said. ‘But not yet.’

‘No,’ McGonagall agreed quietly. ‘Not yet.’ She paused. ‘Have you eaten, Miss Granger? You look awfully pale.’

‘I have, thank you, Professor. Before I left.’

She nodded. ‘And how are Mr Potter and Mr Weasley? I presume the three of you were staying at Mr Black’s home in London?’

‘They’re well, Professor.’ 

‘I imagine they were unhappy at your leaving so soon?’

‘A little,’ Hermione agreed. ‘But I think it is good not to be so… near all the time. I don’t want to be dependent on them.’

The Headmistress gave her a measured look. ‘I don’t think you have ever been anything but independent, Miss Granger.’

Hermione laughed quietly, but she felt a cough burn up her throat that she tried to hide. ‘Harry said the same thing, you know.’

McGonagall put a hand on Hermione’s arm. Dumbledore’s eyes had sparkled like starlight behind his glasses, just as much as McGonagall’s were steady. ‘Then perhaps you might want to start believing us, hm?’ she said. She straightened, and lit her wand with a silent _lumos_. ‘Now, I’d best be off to my apartment,’ she said. ‘It’s been rather an eventful few days.’

Hermione nodded, but she stopped when the movement made her head ache, and stepped aside. ‘It’s good to see you, Professor.’

‘And you, Miss Granger,’ she replied. ‘Now please get some rest, and no doubt I’ll see you tomorrow.’

 

* * *

 

She didn’t see her the following day. Hermione slept endlessly, dreaming fitfully. Her sheets were soaked with sweat, and her skin burned. She kept her windows shut, and felt so cold.

Her fever lessened for brief minutes throughout the day, but she could barely pull herself into the bathroom to drink water from the faucet. With weak and aching arms she pulled her pyjamas from her; they peeled off like wet wallpaper. 

Her curtains stayed drawn, pale light seeping beneath the fabric and burning her eyes when she peeked out onto the grounds. It had snowed overnight, the grounds dressed in crisp white, and the clouds were still so full.

At midday she flung her windows open and lay on top of her sheet-less bed, and sweat ran down her skin as her blood felt like it was burning inside her. Hermione kept seeing figures in her room, hooded and dark, and lights flashed behind her eyes when she closed them, a day-time nightmare that wouldn’t end.

By 4pm the sky had again darkened, and it had started snowing. She slipped in and out of consciousness for hours – maybe it was days – as light faded in and out of her bedroom.

Her throat was dry, and her lips tasted of salt.

She heard the knocking on her door only until the walls seemed to shake with the pressure.

‘ _Granger_!’ it shouted. A girls’ voice, familiar and slightly nasal. ‘I swear to Merlin if you don’t answer in ten seconds then I’m breaking this door down.’

Hermione moaned into her pillow. Her limbs felt like lead, throbbing like her bones had been broken and put back together. She slid from her bed, skittering over the wooden floor like a fawn, and pulled her robe from the back of her door. It seemed to take hours before she could tie the sash around her waist to cover her, and even longer for her to fit the key in the lock of her bedroom door. It tired her just to twist it.

The door flung inwards when it clicked, and she had to stumble back to stop it from thrashing into her.

‘ _Finally_ , Granger!’ Parkinson cried, barging her way into the room. ‘I thought you’d… What the _hell_ happened to you?’

Hermione blinked at her, owlish, as the light from the girls’ corridor flooded into the room. She wandered back to her bed and crawled into the middle of it, curled like a ball, and felt her duvet wrap back around her shivering form with the power of a distant thought.

‘Granger?’ Pansy said. Her voice was careful, and laced with something close to concern.

Hermione felt a hand pressed against her forehead.

A hiss. ‘Merlin, you’re _boiling_.’

She clenched her teeth together, but even her gums ached with the pressure.

She was vaguely aware of someone moving about her room, and she felt hands pulling at her wrists.

‘Come on,’ Pansy was saying. ‘We need to get you in a bath before you burn up.’

It was an effort to stand, but the Slytherin girl had an arm around her waist and she pushed and pulled with a force that meant she couldn’t fall even if she’d wanted to.

A bath was running in the room, and moments later her robe was untied from her and slipped from her shoulders.

‘In you get, Granger,’ Pansy said. She manoeuvred Hermione with surprising care into the bath, but the cold water made her sob and she was ashamed for a hazy moment by her almost-nakedness.

Hermione sniffed. ‘Sorry, Pansy,’ she mumbled. She couldn’t open her eyes, the light of the bathroom piercing, but she felt the girl running water down her back and her sweat-matted hair.

‘Shut up, Granger,’ Pansy said. It lacked any conviction. ‘You’re really sick.’ She ran more water over her head and Hermione felt her washing her skin with a cloth and rubbing shampoo into her scalp. ‘You don’t have any injuries, do you? You’re not infected from something?’

Hermione murmured a ‘no’. She apologised to her again.

‘Shut _up_ , Granger,’ Pansy said. It was still mild and almost-absent minded, an automatic response.

After a while Pansy unwound her arm from Hermione, a little surer that she wouldn’t slip into the tub and drown herself. She brought a cup of water to her lips and helped her drink it, head tipped back.

‘This will help your fever,’ she said.

It tasted of powder and chemicals and limewater, a vile concoction that she was sure her parents used to make her drink as a child.

When the dregs hit the back of her throat, Pansy pulled the plug from the bath tub. She wrapped Hermione in a towel and rubbed it roughly over her skin until it was red-raw and dry.

And then they were back in her bedroom, dim and familiar and smelling of sickness. And she sat in her desk chair as the dark girl opened her windows and put fresh sheets on her bed with a clean towel spread over the mattress. She aired the room with her wand, a whirlwind that heaved into her room for a matter of seconds before everything settled and became winter-quiet, and then she put the bedside lamp on. Pansy rifled through Hermione’s drawers and pulled out some underwear and a pair of shorts and a vest.

Still weak, Hermione pulled them on, while Pansy cast a spell on her hair until it was dry and in a bun but no more tamed than it had ever been.

She lay back on the bed, her duvet tugged neatly beneath her feet. Her skin was clean and cooler, but hot shivers still wracked her body until she’d bite her tongue trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

‘Th-th-thank you, Pansy,’ she said. Lying there, arms down by her sides. She stared at the ceiling. She couldn’t believe how weak she was feeling. How _useless_.

‘Don’t mention it,’ Pansy said. ‘Ever.’

Hermione glanced at her. ‘Why?’ she grit out, and the word was enough.

Pansy shrugged. ‘Because Madame Pomfrey’s away, and so are all your friends, and because I thought you’d rather it be me than Professor McGonagall. Because I knew you’d do the same for me. Because this is insurance against my… little secret. Because you’re the only one in Defence who’s sometimes worth being put against and it would be annoying if you died. Because… Frankly, I’ve seen far better over the past year than some boring, _plain_ naked girl. And because you looked really fucking pathetic. No offence. I’ve got grand delusions of being a healer one day.’

Hermione bit her cheek. She could feel herself fading. Whatever she’d been given was making the room seem like it was darkening, and her shaking was slowing as her body warmed; she felt so exhausted. ‘ _Th_ – _thank_ you, Pansy.’

‘I said don’t mention it.’ She narrowed her eyes at Hermione. ‘We’re not friends. _Okay_?’

Hermione would have grinned if her face hadn’t felt like someone had thrown a wall at it. ‘ _S-sure_ ,’ she stammered.

‘Now go to sleep,’ Pansy ordered. ‘I’ve put a charm on your room so I’ll hear if you wake up. Dinner’s in a few hours so I’ll bring you some food after.’ Her head popped back around the door before she shut it. ‘Try _not_ to die.’

  

* * *

 

Three days passed. Pansy had been true to her word. She’d brought Hermione plates of food and filled up the jug of water on her bedside. She waited in the bathroom, back turned, as Hermione washed with trembling hands and tried hard not to pass out. She changed her bed each day, made her drink the powdery water, and once even sat in her room to read something for Charms while Hermione tried and failed to eat anything.

And then at last she forced her into clothes that weren’t pyjamas, and walked by her side in slow movements to the Great Hall where breakfast was about to start.

There were only a handful of students there, dispersed over a single table. The only Gryffindors she recognised were in their fifth year or younger.

With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she spotted the shock of white hair before realizing that it was exactly where Pansy was leading her.

‘Morning, Pansy,’ he said, watching too closely as Hermione tried to step over the table bench, wrists buckling as she pressed them into the wooden surface.

She was panting by the time she was sitting, and wiped at her forehead with her sleeve.

‘You’re looking… very thin,’ Malfoy said to her. His eyes were narrowed and his glass hovered half-way to his mouth.

‘Draco,’ Pansy said. She was frowning. She spooned small amounts of scrambled egg and grilled tomatoes and Portobello mushrooms onto a plate, and ripped off a small hunk off bread before leaning over to drop it unceremoniously in front of Hermione. The smell of food made her feel ill, but there was nothing in her stomach to even empty.

Hermione picked at the eggs anyway, ate half a mushroom, and chewed at the edges of the bread before washing it down with small sips of water. She couldn’t look up yet. She’d been sleeping for fifteen hours a day. She still felt exhausted.

Forks and spoons scratched against plates, and a few people laughed and chatted around her. The sound made her head ache.

‘Cereal?’ Malfoy asked her. He shook a box at her.

‘No,’ Hermione said. ‘Thanks.’

Malfoy shrugged. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, tipping a heap of Cheerios into a bowl. Hermione thought she might have been delirious still as he drowned the cereal in milk. ‘You’re not going to get better if you don’t eat.’

‘I’m fine,’ she muttered.

He glanced at her. ‘Right. You know I thought the point of the holidays was to rest and recuperate.’

‘This isn’t the army, Draco,’ Pansy said.

‘Isn’t it? Sure feels like it sometimes.’

Pansy rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t be obtuse.’

‘You’re starting to sound like Granger,’ he commented. ‘I think you’ve been playing doctor too long.’

‘Fuck off.’

Malfoy grinned loosely at her. It was such an earnest look, and it made the breath catch in Hermione’s throat. There was nothing harsh or bitter about it; nothing dark or sly. It was purely Pansy’s, made and tailored just for her.

Hermione wondered what it would be like to receive a smile like that from him. She’d always questioned why people like Pansy and Blaise followed him around so much, and let his darkness seep into them the more they clung to him. And now she kind of understood. She thought she might be tempted to do anything, too, just to get someone to look at her like that.

‘ _There_ she is,’ Malfoy said to her insult. ‘Welcome back, Pansy.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I have it on good authority that Madame Pomfrey’s returning this afternoon.’

‘Really?’ Pansy nudged Hermione’s food under the table. ‘You need to go see her. She’ll probably be able to give you something a bit stronger.’

Hermione peeled the skin from a clementine, and chewed slowly on a segment. It burst sour-sweet on her tongue. ‘What have you been giving me?’ She hadn’t even thought to ask until now. Pansy Parkinson was remarkably steady – her movements and her words seemed carefully chosen and her actions pre-determined. She was such an interesting person to watch, and Hermione had never had reason to look too closely before.

‘It’s just mild pain relief. It reduces fever.’

‘Not one of your weird medicines, is it?’ Malfoy asked.

Hermione gave her a sharp look – as sharp as it could be when she still felt so far from lucid. ‘What?’

Pansy rolled her eyes. ‘He’s being a twat. Ignore him.’

‘Easier said than done when someone tries to _endlessly_ barge their way into someone’s life,’ Hermione commented.

‘What is with you and your hyperboles, Granger?’

‘They fit your absurdly overdramatic personality, _Malfoy_.’

He snorted. ‘You’re no fun when you’re ill.’

‘I’m not even going to grace that with a response.’

‘Shame. I was looking forward to your wit.’

‘ _Merlin_ , you two,’ Pansy said, eyes wide. ‘Do you script your little tiffs?’

‘Tiffs?’ Malfoy said. ‘I prefer _spats_.’

‘Of course you do,’ Hermione muttered. Malfoy shot her a dark look at this, but she ignored him.

‘Both sound rather romantic novel-esque,’ Pansy commented. She had poured them all cups of coffee. One sugar and milk for Hermione, no milk and three sugars for Malfoy, and only milk for herself.

Malfoy choked on his tea. ‘Beg your pardon?’

‘That’s… a bit wrong, Pansy,’ Hermione said quietly. Because sure, wasn’t that a funny idea? Star-crossed lovers from opposite sides of the playing field – the Slytherin and the Gryffindor. Wouldn’t it be _exciting_ to have a Death Eater and a Golden Girl fall in love?

Hermione imagined the headlines on the front page of the Daily Prophet, and the image made her feel ill.

Because it would forget the scar embedded along her arm, and it would forget their fear that made him look away while Bellatrix shrieked and laughed. And it would forget their grief. Their sorrow. Their guilt. The irreparability of it all. The way their lives had shattered on the floor for a year and how they were still picking up the pieces, wondering if they’d ever find them all – if they wanted to.

‘Excuse me,’ Hermione muttered, pushing herself to her feet.

Pansy was stirring her tea when she looked at Hermione in confusion. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked. She hadn’t realised.

‘Back to my room,’ Hermione said. ‘I need to lie down.’

‘Maybe you should get some fresh air?’ Pansy replied. ‘Go for a walk on the grounds?’

‘No. Thank you. I’m tired. I want to sleep.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Pansy said, but the words did not hold their usual nonchalance.

Hermione stumbled from the table, struggling to keep her balance. It took her five minutes of walking down a corridor before she realized she’d been heading in the wrong direction.

When she got back into bed, she pulled the covers over her head.

 _Me and Malfoy?_ she thought. _How goddamned_ hilarious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really worried about the OOC'ness of this chapter - mostly of Pansy. I thought of removing it entirely, but I remember asking someone once if they thought Pansy could change, and their response was something along the lines of JKR often being unable to see that people weren't always black and white and it was probably pretty unkind of her to load all of this spite into one young (maybe not particularly nice) girl who belonged to a school house that everyone hated and constantly suspected. 
> 
> So, I sort of thought that Pansy probably thought the end of the war was freeing, in a way, because she no longer had to be someone that everyone expected her to be because she was Slytherin, and because she thought that she should be unkind to them because that's what they forced her to be.
> 
> I think she would have quite appreciated Hermione's friendship (or amicability) after everything, and that maybe she would have seen that Hermione was not really doing okay and suddenly they both became a little more human and wrapped in each other's secrets.
> 
> (Maybe.)


	12. Chapter 12

Another day, and it was Sunday, and term started tomorrow. And Hermione’s head was clear as the fresh snow outside, and her skin felt cool and at last receptive to the cold air. She wore layers and a jumper, and the scarf Molly had knitted her for Christmas. It was rough against her neck, and made her skin itch, but it smelled of log fires and nutmeg and the Burrow, and that was good enough.

Hermione brought her books to the ruins. A few picnic tables were scattered around the grounds, rotting and frozen with ice. Hermione melted the snow from a wooden seat before laying her work down.

She set her wand down on the table to cast a bubble of warmth, and it was a comfort while she wrote out runes from vocabulary lists, and memorised ingredients lists for potions.

It was quiet and peaceful and perfect. The snow was blank and unmarred, and smoke wisped from Hagrid’s chimney. The moon was still full and bright in the blue sky, and a flock of red kites flitted above the ground, darting in and out of the Forbidden Forest until feathers fell from the sky. It was the kind of cold that Hermione knew if she looked up, and the sky was dark and ink-blank, that she would see galaxies.

Ginny and Luna found her there an hour later, and they huddled together on the opposite bench.

‘You’re barking,’ Ginny said. She’d shoved her gloved hands in her armpits.

‘I needed some sun. And some air.’

‘In winter? It’s _freezing_ out here,’ Ginny said. She pointed to the sheets of parchment Hermione had been writing on. They were crisping and curling at the edges. ‘ _Literally_.’

‘Are you feeling better, Hermione?’ Luna asked. ‘I heard you’ve been unwell.’ She leaned forward, her eyes wide and crystal clear. Her skin and hair was pale as the snow around her, but there was a slight flush to her cheeks, and her mouth curved softly. She looked surreal.

‘Better,’ Hermione said. ‘Thank you, Luna. It hit me quite… unexpectedly.’

Ginny frowned at her. ‘You shouldn’t be out here long. You’re always working yourself too hard. You worry too much. You just need to slow down.’

‘Says the girl that flies like lightning on a broom,’ Luna said pointedly.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I do,’ Hermione said. ‘And I’m fine. It just builds up sometimes.’ She brushed her hair back away from her face. ‘It was probably just the travelling. I should have gotten the train.’

‘You should,’ Luna agreed. ‘It’s quite a… sentimental journey. It lets one think of all sorts of things.’

Ginny rolled her eyes. ‘I bet it does.’

‘Did you win many matches?’ Hermione cut in.

‘Most,’ she said. ‘I won all the ones I played in. Most of the team are Irish. Incredibly funny.’

‘Oh? And handsome young men?’

Ginny grinned. ‘Thighs of _steel_.’

Luna sniffed. ‘I suppose that’s not all, either.’

They cackled at this, the three witches. And the trees shook with the sound and the kites flew from the branches. It bounced off the snow, and echoed through the turrets of the castle.

‘Harry wouldn’t like that,’ Hermione said mildly, afterwards.

‘Well Harry wouldn’t like a lot of things, but that’s the way it’s going to be.’

Hermione looked at her carefully. ‘Don’t break his heart,’ she said.

And Ginny looked back steadily at her. ‘We’ve got a lifetime to do that to one another,’ she said. ‘It might be tomorrow. It might be next week – or in a year.’

‘Or it might not happen,’ Luna said.

‘It might not. But it probably will.’

‘Since when were you such a pessimist?’ Hermione asked.

She had only to look at her reflection in Ginny’s glassy brown eyes to know the answer. They fell down at the corners, and water filled them up as clear as melted snow. Her mouth was sad, and her shoulders curved inwards.

‘Ginny,’ Luna whispered. Her hands were clasped on the table, like she meant to touch the girl – put an arm around her shoulders, put a hand on hers. But Ginny’s chin didn’t waver, and her neck was straight, so Luna sat still and in waiting.

‘I’m sorry, Ginny,’ Hermione said. She felt a pang in her chest.

‘It’s all right,’ Ginny said. ‘It’s all right. You shouldn’t feel like you have to keep apologizing, you know.’ Her mouth quirked. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

Hermione threw snow at her, and shielded her work when Ginny did the same.

Their laughter echoed again, and this time it lasted a little longer.

 

* * *

 

Draco dotted the last i’s and crossed the last t’s of his exam essay on the theory of rune translation. He wanted to laugh at the words he’d written – bullshit written with a quill made of silver. Something about the assimilation of cuneiform with hieroglyph, the possibility that such ancient languages were the first – that runes were simply an evolution, a movement of language to suit an evolving people, waiting for Merlin’s arrival.

He wasn’t the first to discuss the topic, and wouldn’t be the last. But his language was forceful enough and his paragraphs looked neatly spaced and it seemed almost like he _was_ the first. As if the words were new from the very tip of his feather and he was so astounded at his own genius that he simply had to let the old crone know.

And maybe she’d believe him. She’d forget the small, condensed passages at the ends of textbooks, the ones that scurried over unsubstantiated references to Muggle language research.  

But that was where the scholars erred – why bother looking at the successor of an ancient language when the language itself was nonsensical enough? Why not look to the system _before_ that to make some sort of understanding. He and Babbage had bickered about it enough.

‘Look!’ he used to say, once holding out a book on Egyptian hieroglyphs from the Middle Kingdom. ‘This one here. It means _ceramic_. It has the same three lines as the wizard’s rune for pottery.’ The professor’s looked was shrewd and untempered. ‘You can’t seriously tell me this is a coincidence?’

‘I can, actually, Mr Malfoy,’ she said tautly. She set her quill down on her desk and pushed her glasses up to rest on her head. ‘Because these same three lines are found in perhaps a hundred other runes related to crafts. In every society whose culture and whose civlisation was _reliant_ on such things for survival – ceramic for pots, ceramic for bowls that created labour payment, ceramic for a rudimentary monetary system – it is _not_ unlikely that such glyphs will intermingle at some stage. And perhaps it was three hundred years ago such a transition took place. Perhaps it was Merlin himself two thousand years ago. Regardless. You are not the first to notice such things, and you _certainly_ won’t be the last.’

He remembered that lesson, as the papers were collected by invigilators – remembered the look on the professor’s face. The way Theo had shrugged at him and Granger had looked thoughtful. Considerate. The sort of look someone had on their face when they were verging on something brilliant. Draco entertained the brief notion that perhaps it was him. She had a way of looking at people she liked, that she admired, that she thought something _of_ , and Draco wondered what it would be like to have her look at him that way.

But thing was, she had another look too. Reserved for those she feared, and hated, and _loathed_. And he was used to that look, more than any other. And he thought he’d gotten used to it, and dangerously thought that now he might even like it.

‘The papers have all been collected, and we will now dismiss you row by row.’

The Runes class was the last to leave. The other students in the hall had been taking mock exams for Care of Magical Creatures and Muggle Studies. It made him feel a little uncomfortable that his own exams were taken in the same room – as if those subjects were bundled together. As if his studies were trivial.

‘You coming?’ Nott said, standing in front of his desk. ‘I thought we’d play a game. If you wanted.’

Draco blinked at him. ‘It’s fucking cold outside.’

‘Grow a pair, would you?’ Nott said. He patted him on the arm in a way that was more of a light punch. ‘I haven’t left the library in almost two weeks. I think I deserve a bit of cold if that’s all I’m going to get.’

Draco sighed and got to his feet. He sent his satchel to his room. ‘Fine. But we’re playing over the lake.’

Nott narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do you always insist on turning something fun into something dangerous?’

Draco grinned. ‘Because that’s where the _real_ fun lies.’

 

* * *

 

Nott broke his arm, and Draco landed face-first into the frozen lake and left blood on the ice, a dark, rose-coloured token that he could see staining the white a mile high. But they fixed themselves and wiped at their cuts with a handkerchief, and then they were launching themselves into the skies again.

Pansy watched from below. She’d shriek in awful delight, and Blaise tried to keep score for a game that had no rules other than sheer bullishness.

‘They’re just _awful_ , aren’t they?’ she squealed.

‘Awful,’ Blaise droned. ‘Absolute terrors.’

Pansy hit him on the arm. ‘You’re such a sarcastic shit, you know that?’

‘I’m quite aware of it.’

She made to hit him again, but he caught her wrist without drawing his eyes away from the two figures above him. ‘Do that _again_ , Pansy, and I won’t be so gentle.’

Pansy pulled herself from his grip. ‘You’re awful.’

‘Again, aware of it.’

Pansy sighed. She tipped her head up and watched as Theo darted into the trees at the edge of the forest; Draco was close enough behind him he could have stretched out his hand and pulled on the end of Theo’s broom if he wanted to. But he was grinning. He loved the chase too much.

‘ _I_ want to fly,’ Pansy complained.

‘No one’s stopping you.’

She rolled her eyes, and waved her wand so the artificial heat made her toes curl. The lake looked so much more frightening when it froze – at least sometimes you could see what swam near the surface, but in winter the ice was thick and near impenetrable, and it looked like a sheet of frozen milk. Cloudy and solid and so cold it was almost dry to the touch. It feared her more that perhaps what lay underneath could still see out.

‘I haven’t got a broom,’ she said. ‘Draco won’t let me borrow one of his, and—’

‘No surprise there.’

‘— _and_ I don’t think anything would tempt me to risk flying over _that_.’

Blaise shrugged. ‘I’m surprised Granger hasn’t come running out to confiscate the brooms or something.’

‘What do you mean?’

He glanced at her sideways. ‘You know what I mean. Always shoving into everyone else’s business. Always with that incessant need to make everyone as damned miserable as she is.’

‘That’s _actually_ crap for once, Blaise, and I’ll honestly be shocked if you believe it.’

His eyebrows rose, and his face was less impassive for once. Something like curiosity flashed in his dark irises. ‘I heard you’d buddied up over Christmas, but I can’t believe you’re actually _defending_ her. _You’re_ the one was first in line to hand her, Potter and Weasley over to Lord Volde—’

‘Fuck off, Blaise,’ Pansy snapped. She got to her feet, arms crossed, and her winter boots pressed firmly together as if that would help her stay warm. ‘You know how things were.’

‘Of course I know,’ he said slowly. ‘But I’d be careful about how quickly you start to change your tune. Don’t forget that people are still watching us.’

Pansy laughed. It was a hollow, deeply unamused sound. ‘You think I haven’t?’ she said. ‘You think I’ll ever stop second-guessing someone’s actions and doubting the way someone speaks to me or _looks_ at me?’

Blaise didn’t move. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘No. No, you didn’t. But you fucking _meant_ it, didn’t you?’ She started to leave, but something stopped her short. ‘You think you’re so high and mighty because of your dark fucking humour and the way you laugh at everyone in your head without actually laughing. But most of the time it just makes you a really boring, really unpleasant person to be around.’

His face – his damned face – didn’t move. He just watched her movements with dark eyes; they were erratic and she couldn’t seem to stand still. Her hair was falling out of its messy bun, and her lips were cracked and ready to start bleeding from the cold.

‘At least when Draco’s being a shit he actually fucking means it. At least it means _something_ when he acts like you do. But it doesn’t last forever, and that’s okay, so we forgive his fuck-ups, and that’s why it means so much when he’s everything else he is to us. Now you need to grow the fuck up and take a leaf from his book because he’s started to learn in a way that you really don’t seem to have caught onto yet. But I suggest you start. Or you’re going to start finding things _very_ difficult _very_ soon, Blaise.’

‘Thanks for the advice, Pans,’ he said. His tone was dry, and lacked just about everything she could have hoped to hear in response. It was exactly everything she had expected to hear. She walked back up to the castle in silence, and he pretended like he didn’t see the tears that slipped off the soft curve of her jaw.

When Theo and Draco came back down, a little less bloody but more out of breath than before, they looked at Blaise questioningly.

‘She’d had enough, and she was getting cold,’ he said. ‘The lake scared her.’

Theo snorted at this, and kicked his shoes into the snow. But Draco was staring at him, and Blaise stared back, and it was a very long, and very silent time before Blaise had to look away first.

 

* * *

 

‘Plans for Valentine’s, Granger?’

‘None of your business.’

‘You know that basically translates to ‘fuck all’?’

Hermione sighed, and put her book down across her chest, legs stretched out along the sofa.

It was not uncommon to walk into the room of an evening and see the two lounging in front of the fire, but it was more uncommon that anyone walked in or out at all in the small hours of the morning that they were there. Malfoy would take the armchair; sometimes he’d have a tumbler of whiskey that she overlooked. Hermione would take the sofa, either a book held up above her as she propped her feet on the arm, or she’d sit cross-legged, hunched over the coffee table with papers spread around her like leaves fallen from a tree in autumn. Both there like the other wasn’t there first. Both there like they were waiting for the other to leave, when neither of them ever did.

Malfoy was never more than mildly concerned at the amount of work she seemed to do. It was beginning to dawn on him that perhaps she was not as remarkably intelligent as she seemed. Perhaps she was instead the most compulsive hard-worker he’d ever come across, with an astounding ability for memorisation. Maybe she was bored.

‘I suppose you haven’t anything to do, either?’ Hermione said, turning her head.

‘None of your business,’ he said.

She suppressed a smile, and lifted her book back above her head.

‘You know you could levitate that thing. One day it’s going to smack you in the face.’

‘Thank you for that.’

‘Always a pleasure. I look forward to you waking up with a black eye one morning.’

‘Ah, but then I _will_ be inclined to use magic,’ she said. She turned the page of her book, but she couldn’t remember what the last three had been about. She was too aware of him. She didn’t have work, and she couldn’t sleep. A book sustained the illusion. ‘How’s the placement going?’ she asked mildly.

‘ _Oh_ , for…’ He leaned forward in the chair. ‘You’re going to keep at that, aren’t you?’ 

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Of _course_ you don’t. And yes, thank you. It’s going splendidly.’

Hermione nodded to herself. Content, in some strange way. It was… _nice_ of him, almost. To admit it – at last. But it had only taken her a month of asking him.

‘What do you have to do?’ she asked.

‘Why do you want to know, Granger?’

‘I’m curious.’

‘ _No_ ,’ he said slowly. ‘You’re torTenring yourself.’

‘I know what torture is, Malfoy,’ she snapped. ‘And this is _not_ it.’

He leaned back at this, like she’d dealt him a physical blow, but she saw no flash of guilt or regret. He didn’t react like a normal person would.

 _But_ he’s _not normal_ , she thought.

‘It’s… It’s fine.’

‘Fine? That’s all you can give me?’

‘What more do you want, Granger?’ Malfoy said. He stood up.

‘I – _don’t leave_ – I want _details_ ,’ she said. She sat up, book thrown across the sofa. Her hands clutched the upholstery.

‘I’m not leaving,’ he muttered. He leaned against the beam over the fire, and crossed his legs at the ankle. He looked like he owned the place. His cufflinks winked at her in the light of the fire. Hermione tried to hide her shudder, imaging an education spent in a school owned by the Malfoys. But she wouldn’t be here, of course. Would never have gotten a letter. Her magic would have been wild and ragged and torn her to pieces.

‘I deliver letters,’ he said at last. ‘I take notes in meetings. I write up report analyses. I sit and pretend to be an idiot before they boot me out.’ A smile crept onto his face, a gnarled twisted thing. ‘You should have seen Shacklebolt’s face when he saw it was me. The applications were anonymous, you know?’

She didn’t remember that. ‘How? The interviews weren’t.’

‘No, they weren’t… But I reckon by that time they’d thought of another use for this placement. A Death Eater under the control of the Ministry? Bloody hell, they must have had a _field_ day at the thought.’ He glanced at her. ‘I wonder what you’d have done if you got it. They probably would have had you drafting laws and hosting conferences.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Hermione said. She didn’t want to think that. The lost opportunity. 

‘No, I don’t. But putting _courier_ on my CV is hardly going to cancel out the criminal report that gets sent along with it.’

‘You don’t _know_ that—’

‘Oh, stop being so fucking naïve, Granger. It doesn’t suit you.’

She sighed. They couldn’t keep up civility long. _That_ didn’t suit them. It needed to be fast enough for the crack of a whip. It had to leave her blood boiling and her heart raging. She hated it, but she was just as terrified of the day she wouldn’t. When all their bickering and their insults and the way they’d stab at each other with words and wished they were swords would die down and lose their meaning and eventually they’d just be – words. And a little more of her would fade.

‘What’s it like there?’ she said. ‘Is it a mess?’

He arched an eyebrow. ‘Haven’t you and Potter been there enough times to know?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘We didn’t end up there for a _day out_.’

Malfoy grabbed an empty glass from the coffee table; water filled it from the tip of his wand. He held it out to her, and filled up another for himself.

‘It’s still a shambles,’ he said. He drank deeply, then held the glass loosely in his hand. ‘Some of the arguments among the ministers are, well, a little insulting to this country. And they do it in the _foyer_.’

‘Arguments?’

‘Ministers of the Treasury, mostly. At least Kingsley has enough sense to cut people up in his office – _no,_ not _literally,_ Granger _._ ’

‘What’s happened with the Treasury?’

He stared at her. She waited for the insult to come. ‘Granger. Please tell me you’re not so lost in your own massive fucking head—‘ There it was. ‘—that you’re not aware this country’s bankrupt? It’s been all over the papers for the past six months.’

‘No, I know _that_. But you’re talking about something else,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘What?’

‘You’ve been in those meetings. You said it yourself. What _exactly_ have you heard?’

Maybe it was her obsession with mystery – her penchant for something to be wrong for her to fix. But she had to have something from him. Something that wasn’t a student’s complaint about homework. Something that was more than revision and learning potion formulas by rote. Adrenaline and fear. That was what she needed.

‘I’m under an oath of confidentiality, Granger,’ he told her. His look was full of curiosity.

‘Then break it,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘The thing about _magical_ oaths, is that they’re _magical._ You can’t break them.’

‘You’re not seriously telling me they made you take an Unbreakable?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. But they’d know if I broke it.’

Hermione paused. ‘Not an Unbreakable? Then there’ll be a clause to it. You… You wouldn’t have to outright tell me, would you? What if I worked it out?’

‘Merlin, Granger. You don’t need to know. This isn’t any of your business.’

‘Like it’s any of _yours_?’ she said.

‘It’s _mine_ out of _circumstance_ ,’ he said. He looked serious in a way she didn’t think she’d seen him look before. His shoulders were so straight, and his eyes hard, like they were incapable of giving anything away. He looked so much older. ‘If I didn’t have to know, then I wouldn’t know.’

‘You’re saying that if _I_ got the placement _you_ wouldn’t want to know what the Ministry was up to?’

‘Frankly, Granger, _no_. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t give a shit what the Ministry was up to.’

She reared back, confounded. ‘Then why did you apply for the placement?’

The silence stretched. And then something clicked.

‘You never applied. Did you?’

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, and that was all she needed to know.

‘What the _hell_ , Malfoy?’

‘Nott applied for me,’ he said. He sat beside her on the sofa. He was close enough that if she moved, their arms would touch. He smelled of firewood and something dark and sweet. ‘He never wanted the placement. He’ll have his father’s business when he’s done here, and I probably won’t have all that much. The surname ‘Malfoy’ is not one that thrives in the trading market anymore.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘He duplicated the first letter, pretended to be me, said they’d offered me to apply. He knew I’d never get a chance if I put my name on an application.’

‘The surname ‘Nott’ doesn’t exactly scream Order of the Phoenix.’

‘He sent two in, one in my name, one in his. Said we’d put our wrong names on the applications. A stupid mistake. They couldn’t exactly say no to both of us with our grades and experience.’

‘You both looked like idiots.’

‘Well. Yes.’

‘This is so flawed,’ she muttered. And then: ‘Why did you go? You could have— _I_ could have…’

‘Yes. But two days in and I realized that it might be something new. It wouldn’t be…’ He looked at the ceiling, at the draped curtains over the windows, and out to the frozen grounds outside. ‘This.’ He looked at her at last. ‘Sorry, Granger,’ he said.

‘No, you’re not.’

He smiled. There was something sad about it. ‘Seemed the right thing to say.’

‘And you always know the right thing to say, don’t you, Malfoy?’

‘Of course. It’s part of my charming personality.’

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, quick and hesitant, like the wingbeat of a humming bird.

‘I can’t believe you sometimes,’ she said.

‘You’ve done worse, Granger.’

‘So have you.’

‘So have we all.’

Morality was an interesting thing to consider after the war. Just because one side flashed more green than the other, did that make them any better? Because _they_ _did_. Cast Unforgivables. And just because they were part of an Order – of order – it didn’t make them less brutal with their magic.

Hermione knew she wasn’t the only person that faced torture. Her own, by any standard, was minimal and fleeting. Hers came to an end.

‘They’re a _child_!’ she once heard Lupin shout through a thin door.

‘They’re a _terrorist_ ,’ Snape had growled back. His voice was so dreadful. ‘They’ve killed as many in a week as Pettigrew probably has in a year.’

‘No one deserves this.’

‘No one deserves anything. But we have no more Veritaserum and unless you want to know where they’re keeping three Muggleborn students then I _suggest_ you start casting. _Lupin_.’

Red light flashed under that door for _days_ , and though there was a silencing charm cast on the door, Hermione imagined she could hear that girl’s screams, whoever she had been. Hermione thought at the time that they probably sounded like her own would.

And they did.

It wasn’t until they got to the Malfoy’s that she had to see _it_. It had been wireless reports and bodies covered in sheets. There’d been no flashing light. There’d been no blood. There’d been nothing that happened for her to _watch_.

The dining room had been hot and sickly, and the hazy summer sun shone on the windows. It smelled of death. Blood was drying on the floorboards and stuck to the bottoms of shoes. A fly threw itself against the window, and when silence fell you could hear the quiet _thud thud thud._

An hour passed before it lay on the floor and didn’t move. Hermione had stared at it, cheek pressed into blood that hadn’t yet been her own. She had wondered how long it would be until she would be like that, broken from throwing itself against a wall.

Greyback was drooling; his spit hit the ground. Sweat slid down Lucius’ forehead.

And Draco. She’d see him standing there for the rest her life. She’d never seen him shake like that. The absolute failure of control clear in his face – he was scared when he saw them. Not of them. Of his aunt. His mother – his father. He stood frightened of his family in the face of what they’d do to three teenagers that he’d tormented for eight years.

But the fear beside his father’s excitement and his aunt’s absolute insanity was all that told Hermione she was not alone when she sobbed into the floorboards and tried to keep lying under the pain. Lightning bolts that shot through her nerves and left them like shrapnel – it took her months until she’d stop jerking from the motion – and a tongue bitten so hard to stop from screaming that she swallowed enough blood to taste metal for days.  She wasn’t the only one that was terrified, and she wasn’t the only one that was finding it so _hard_ to keep up with what good and bad meant anymore. 

Hermione looked at Malfoy, sitting beside her in the Common Room. Fire dying, windows frosted over. She liked these evenings, sometimes, because she felt like she was in a cocoon. Sometimes they’d go an entire night without saying anything. And one of them would stumble to their feet and drift off to bed and know that it wouldn’t be long before the other would go to theirs, neither wanting to go first.

‘Did you feel alone when you first got here?’ she asked him. ‘When we got back to Hogwarts?’

‘Are you trying to make me out to be a creature of sentiment?’

‘I’m asking you a question,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to answer.’

He ground his teeth together, and she saw the muscle jump in his jaw. Of course he had to answer. ‘The others didn’t understand,’ he said at last.

‘Which bit?’

‘Any bit. The – the ‘before’, and the after. _Especially_ the after.’

‘I feel the same,’ Hermione said.

He didn’t look at her, or acknowledge that they shared anything. He didn’t deny it, though, or spit out some sort of defence that would alienate them from one another.

‘I think I felt more… ashamed,’ he continued. ‘Than anything. And I was… _concerned_ that I’d make myself as isolated as I’d become out of my own doing. That I’d lost them.’

Hermione drew her knees up. ‘But I don’t understand,’ she said warily.

‘You don’t seem to understand much anymore, do you?’

She huffed a quiet laugh. ‘Not really.’

‘Go on.’

‘Why did you take the mark?’ she asked. She heard him breathe deeply. ‘You don’t have to answer,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve just been curious.’

‘You’re always fucking _curious_ , Granger,’ he muttered. ‘It doesn’t excuse you, all right?’

‘I know that.’

He glanced at her sideways. ‘I’m not sure you do.’

She said nothing.

‘Do you want me to say something?’ he asked. ‘Is there a particular answer you’re looking for? Because I can give you that if you really want it.’

‘Malfoy—’

And then he gave her a look, like it was obvious, and said, 'Because I _wanted_ to, Granger.’

Hermione heard the words, but she didn’t really listen to them. And she hadn’t known what she expected him to say – if she’d expected him to give her an answer at all – but that hadn’t been it. At all.

Freewill meant that spitting ‘mudblood’ at her meant something. It meant that every snide look and every spiteful comment had been real. She had to question his family’s influence, but he was an adult now, and he was _autonomous_. No one decided for him.

She felt ill.

‘What's wrong, Granger?’ he said coolly. ‘Not what you wanted to hear? Did you want me to say how my father forced me? How the Dark Lord had his wand at my mother's throat?’

‘Don't be ridiculous.’

‘No? Perhaps you wanted me to admit how I was scared. How I was lost. Does that fit better? Help the image you've tried to make of me?’

‘Malfoy, you're being—’

‘Ridiculous. Of course. Stupid me for expecting you to be able to stomach the truth.’ He sneered. She hadn’t seen that expression on his face in a long time, and he was alien to her again. ‘Grow the fuck up, Granger.’

He made to leave, pushing himself to his feet, but she touched his wrist.

So light.

She didn’t know why she’d done it. It was a senseless thing: reaching out like her touch would be for the better. Like skin-on-skin was something they were familiar with. Like she knew how his pulse would jump under his fingers and he knew how warm her flesh would be.

‘You’re right,’ she admitted. She pulled her hand back, neither looking at it, neither acknowledging that it had happened. She didn't know why she was telling him this, why she felt impelled to respond to his insults and his accusations. Maybe it was the way he didn't seem to be breathing, and his frame was so still that if she touched him again she thought he might shatter. ‘You're right. I wanted to believe you were misled. I wanted to think you were...’ Innocent. ‘Different. We all made our choices in the war. I just… I expected something else.’

‘You’re not going to fucking apologise to me now, are you?’

‘Do you want me to?’ she asked. She wondered if she would if he did.

‘Not particularly.’

‘Then no. I’m not.’

‘Good,’ he said.

‘Good,’ she echoed.


	13. Chapter 13

Valentine’s erupted in a swarm of pink and red and too many flowers and early-morning sunrises that reflected off the snow in a rose-tinted spectacle of light. Students received flowers that snuck through the closed doors of classrooms and flew onto their desks. Some received boxes of chocolates that smelled of perfume and honey – sharp and sickly sweet and cloying at the back of the throat.

Hermione received exactly five cards. Harry, Ron, Luna, Neville, and Ginny.

It was sweet. She appreciated the sentiment.

But putting the dozen roses Ron had sent her in a vase on her desk and eating the chocolates from Harry with careful, fastidious choices as she wrote up her notes and did her reading was extraordinarily… _lacking_.

Wasn’t someone supposed to knock on her door one morning holding the roses? With a smile and eyes that said she should shut the door behind them and _fast_. Not some floating, invisible hand that waited and waited until she plucked them out of the air.

Wasn’t she supposed to feel someone’s chest pressing against her back, chin on her shoulder, as she fed them chocolates? Even the ones she liked – she’d give them those because they liked them more and she’d kiss their lips and taste it and that was exactly enough.

The idea was alluring and made her need.

Ginny had left Hogwarts for the day. She wasn’t supposed to. She wasn’t an Eighth year student, but McGonagall said yes. And so she flooed to Derbyshire and met Harry for the day. A whole day. What a gift to spend so many cumulative seconds with someone you loved – someone who loved you.

Hermione wondered what she’d do with those seconds. Maybe look at their eyes and their lips and their shoulder dips and the veins in their wrist and the way they seemed to jump if you looked closely. Maybe she’d close her eyes and listen to them breathing and listen for their heart beat. Maybe she’d read while they read and they’d talk about what they liked and thought about at 3am if they had to – if they couldn’t sleep. Why they couldn’t sleep, perhaps.

Maybe they’d do nothing.

And that sounded wonderful.

Except that it didn’t.

Where was the red?

Her heart would beat so slowly that it would almost stop. Instead of lulling water she wanted lightning; the violence of rush-hour traffic over the beating of a bird’s wings. In the war she had wanted cups of tea at the kitchen table. A slice of pecan pie. No radio on. Maybe she’d read, or do some of her mum’s knitting, or a crossword. But mostly she thought she’d just sit at the table and eat pie and drink tea with too much milk in it.

And then she tried that. After. Day one. And she thought she’d go insane and the pie had turned into a mess and she’d made the tea _just right_ when it needed to have too much milk like her dad would have made it.

And she got the bus to Oxford Street and watched city workers barge their way through crowds of shoppers in sunglasses and shorts and pretty dresses with flowers on. And it would smell of engine fumes and rubbish bins that hadn’t been emptied and frying oil as she passed dingy cafés. And someone would be shouting’ someone would be laughing – maybe someone would cry. And her head spun, and she couldn’t stop her eyes darting about, fingers itching to reach for her wand. But then she realised that her heart was beating as fast as it always did and fear and sweat pricked at the back of her neck and this was not empty silences at the table and smelling roses.

Maybe roses would be nice. A little bit. But only for a moment.

‘This delicate flower is known as the Chocolate Cosmos,’ Slughorn told the class that morning. ‘ _Cosmos atrosanguineus_ , otherwise known.’

‘I thought it was extinct,’ Hermione said.

Dean cast her an alarmed look. ‘How do you _know_ that?’ he whispered.

‘It was, Miss Granger,’ the professor said. ‘But Muggles re-cloned it in 1902, and we have since been able to create a fertile clone in these past five years. The Ministry of Magic’s Agricultural Department began allowing the clone to be sold on the markets at the beginning of this year.’ He held it up towards the light that seeped through the small windows. Dust swam about in the light rays. ‘The colour is its namesake, but also the smell. Here, pass it around.’

The students passed it around, breathing deeply. Their eyes drifted closed at the smell, as if it were Amortentia.

Hermione was eager for her turn. The flower was small and fragile, so little in her palm. It was a dark and rich red-brown, and it reminded her of dried blood. But she pressed the centre of the flower to her nose and it smelled of vanillin, like hazy summer, and rich like coffee and cocoa. She used to make hot chocolate with her mum after school on a Friday. Her mum would finish early then, and she’d pick Hermione up from her school and they’d put their pyjamas on and watch a film and make hot chocolate over the stove with real chocolate and thick cream and condensed milk and the kitchen would smell of vanilla essence.

She did not have a sweet tooth, unlike her own mother’s ironically sugary cravings, but the taste of the chocolate on her tongue – over ice and cold in summer, and heat that burned in winter – would keep her going sometimes in the week. When her homework returned covered in red, or her friends sniggered at her raised hand in class, she would think of her pyjamas folded at the end of the bed, her mum’s smile when she pulled up in the car. Of the chocolate that would make her teeth ache.

‘When you’re ready, Hermione,’ Dean said, eyebrows raised. He had his hand held out like it had been there for a while.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

‘Longing for roses, Granger?’ Malfoy asked, leaning slightly over the table.

‘Just… taking it all in,’ she said. He replied by rolling his eyes.

‘The flower makes a beautiful table decoration,’ Slughorn said, ‘but it makes an even more interesting poison.’ Hermione observed with amusement as Susan Bones – quietly, quickly – passed it on. ‘I suppose poison is a bit of an exaggeration,’ he admitted. ‘It helps to detect thieves. It’s one of the very few potions in existence that requires a duplicity of drinkers. To be able to detect a thief among a group, all individuals must take it. In your exams you might be asked to describe the ingredients, method, and effects of a Duality Potion like this one.’

Hermione put a hand up. ‘I assume an Outstanding answer would include reference to more than one Duality Potion, Professor?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, Miss Granger. You’ll find those in your textbooks. Although, if the question asks you to describe _one_ , referring to another must only be a fleeting reference. Any mention of context or history might be welcome, too. You all know by now how to answer a question to get the necessary marks.’

‘Do we need to know it for a practical exam?’ Neville asked.

‘I couldn’t say, Mr Longbottom.’ Professor Slughorn smiled. ‘I don’t, unfortunately, write the papers. And even if I did I couldn’t tell you. But anyway. Me knowing wouldn’t do any good if you lot had never made it before, so let’s get on, shall we?’

Hermione collected the ingredients from the store cupboards while Dean went about preparing their equipment, lighting the fire beneath the cauldron, gathering a pestle and mortar, setting out a cutting board and small knife.

Each pair was given a single flower, accompanied by a warning word from the professor. The flowers were still rare, and they were expensive. Hermione supposed each petal was probably worth a small fortune. A curiosity that students were allowed to play ‘chemistry’ with them.

Soon, the room filled with a scent that was sickly sweet and made Hermione feel nauseous. She reached to push open the window by her table, the panes building up with condensation.

It was a moment before she caught the motion in the distance on the grounds. It was a small dark speck that flew closer, as fast as a snitch, and as it grew closer she realised it was red and as dark as blood.

A rose.

It caught on the latch of the window as it made its way in. Hermione reached up to loosen it, pulling it down with a quiet hiss as she felt the sharp nick in the skin of her hand, and the blood welled up in her finger.

‘You all right?’ Dean said. He passed her a tissue. ‘Who’s it for?’

She looked at the tag as she poorly bandaged her finger. _For HJG._ Hermione blinked.

‘It’s for me,’ she said slowly.

She caught Dean’s grin. ‘That’s cute. Who’s it from?’

Hermione looked up; Malfoy and Pansy were watching her with matching expressions of curiosity, quickly disguised as faint disinterest.

‘It doesn’t say. I’m hoping they didn’t intend to make me bleed,’ she said dryly.

‘It would be the ultimate sickening metaphor,’ Malfoy said. ‘Love hurts. Love makes you bleed, et cetera.’

‘Is that what you say to all your girlfriends, Malfoy?’ Hermione asked, a twist of a smile on her face.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. He waved a hand behind him, where there stood absolutely no one. ‘All my many female companions, lining up to see me.’

‘Was that… _modesty_ , Malfoy?’ Dean gasped. He was stirring the caldron with slow, precise movements.

‘Careful, Thomas,’ Malfoy warned.

‘Always careful,’ he bit back.

‘Is that what you told the last one?’ Pansy muttered.

 ‘Enough chatting and more working, hm?’ Professor Slughorn said from across the room. He wasn’t looking at them, but his words reached their target.

Dean looked down and hid a sheepish smile. ‘Sorry.’

Hermione tried to stay focused during the lesson, but the notes in the margin of her textbook were unintelligible and illegible. The knife hovered shakily over the fragile veins of the flower petals, and Dean gave her a gentle push away from the work surface.

He knew what she was thinking; it was written on her face.

Not only _who_ had given her the rose – but why?

What made that strange person possibly think that she would want such a solitary little thing to lie on her bedside table, a lone, stalwart beacon of velvet red.

It was so fragile, so sharp and capable of cutting, so prepared already to die, now cut from its thorny roots, and Hermione stared at it for so long as she grew to realise that it was so much _her_. 

‘That thing’s going to burst into flames if you stare at it much longer,’ Malfoy said. He was slowly adding the finely cut petals to his cauldron as Pansy stirred them in. Pansy was watching the liquid whirl, feigning an expression of concentration that made her look ridiculous.

‘I’m half-hoping it will,’ Hermione said.

‘That’s not very pleasant.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not sure sending me this was, either.’

‘Granger, a rose is not an ulterior motive on Valentine’s Day. I mean, it can be. But for a different thing. If you understand what I’m saying.’

‘ _Understood_ , Malfoy. Thank you.’

He shrugged. ‘I’m only saying. Perhaps someone’s trying to say something.’

‘Well I’d only know what they were saying if I knew who it was from.’

‘I thought you liked a challenge?’

She frowned. ‘On a slightly larger scale.’

‘Ministry scale?’ he said, something flashing in his eyes that said he knew he was goading her and she knew it too.

‘You two are so weird,’ Pansy muttered. ‘Granger _obviously_ just has some sort of secret admirer.’

‘What?’

‘ _What_?’ echoed Hermione.

Pansy looked at them. ‘It’s a rose. It’s Valentine’s Day. You don’t know who it is.’ She kept staring with mild incredulity, as if waiting for something to click. ‘ _Granger_. God knows why, but someone _likes_ you and hasn’t _told_ you. This is the best they can do at the moment without saying it to you.’

Hermione stared at her. ‘I didn’t realise that sort of thing was real.’

‘How would you know?’ Dean chipped in. The potion was starting to smell mild and mellow. It was losing its dark colouring, turning a pale yellow that shone like a mix of sun and moonlight. ‘It’s a secret, isn’t it? You might have never known if someone liked you.’

‘That’s sad,’ Hermione said. ‘Never telling someone you liked them.’

‘Weren’t you pining after Weasley for years?’ Malfoy said, looking at her closely.

The question made her cheeks warm, and she started cleaning the equipment Dean had finished with in a sterilising solution.

‘I wasn’t _pining_. I was his friend. And then I loved him.’

‘In secret.’

‘Well. I wasn’t hiding it. If he loved me back then that would have been sort of nice—’

‘Understatement,’ Dean muttered.

‘— _but_ if he didn’t then he didn’t. I knew I wouldn’t wait forever for him, and I knew that possibly I wouldn’t love him forever, either. It wasn’t the end of the world.’

She realised as she was scrubbing at the knife that a silence had fallen around the table. Dean and Pansy were stirring the cauldrons with distant, distracted movements, and Malfoy was staring at her.

‘ _That’s_ sad,’ Pansy said quietly.

‘That sounds exactly like you,’ Malfoy added. ‘Of course Granger would be pragmatic with love.’

Hermione snorted. ‘I’m not pragmatic with love. I’m just…’

‘Sensible?’ he offered. ‘Level-headed? Practical?’

‘I can’t believe I’m talking about this with you,’ she muttered. In a Potions class. In _public._ ‘And I can hardly imagine you know what love is, Malfoy. If I’m pragmatic at least I wouldn’t be ruthless.’

‘Now, now. Let’s not make assumptions.’

She clenched her jaw. ‘Do you ever stop being a snide hypocrite?’

‘Do you ever stop being a snide know-it-all?’ he countered.

‘What are you, _thirteen_?’

‘ _Twelve_ , actually. I’m _twelve_.’

Hermione rolled her eyes.

‘Right, students,’ the professor called out. ‘You should all have at least finished by now, so you can stop your stirring. And if you haven’t then something has gone really quite wrong.’

He wandered around the tables of the classroom, dipping a finger into cauldrons, putting his nose into the faint fumes. Some he gave a slight stir, others he merely glanced at.

Slughorn sniffed at Dean’s and Hermione’s, and squinted at Malfoy’s and Pansy’s.

‘Interesting,’ he said, wandering back to the front of the room. It was difficult to tell by the tone of his voice whether that was a _good_ kind of interesting. ‘Some promising looking potions, and some that are rather less so. The liquid should have turned a cloudy pale yellow colour – like creamed butter and sugar. The taste should be mellow. Such as when too much water is added to powdered hot chocolate, yes?’ There were a few sad nods. ‘But the aesthetics are only part of the one puzzle, as you all know.’

‘Do you want us to… try it, Professor?’ Seamus asked from across the room.

‘No, I think not.’ He pulled the pocket watch out of his tweed waistcoat. ‘The lesson’s almost over. You may take it if you like, but I would ask that none of you use it, or if so, then the consumers must take the potion with consent. The consequences would be grave if you do not.’

‘What did the Ministry use if the flower was extinct?’

Slughorn looked around him. ‘Can anyone answer Mr Finch-Fletchley’s question? Anyone?’

‘Just a lot of Veritaserum?’ Hermione suggested.

‘Indeed. And what makes this an improvement?

‘I suppose you don’t have to question every person, or make a batch of Veritaserum large enough for a number of culprits. There are too many rules and requirements for using Veritaserum on suspects, anyway. It’s a sort of shortcut potion.’

‘Correct, Miss Granger. It’s far more exact than something like Veritaserum – it is specifically for a case of larceny.’

Hermione saw Malfoy looking at her out of the corner of her eye.

‘ _Know-it-all_ ,’ he mouthed.

 

* * *

 

‘Who’s it from?’ Neville asked Hermione over lunch. She carried it beneath her textbooks with mild embarrassment. She found herself watching for anyone that looked at her with too much interest. Anyone who looked like the rose-giving, secret-admirer type. Perhaps they wore hats indoors. Or ate roast dinners without gravy. _That_ sort.

‘I don’t know, Neville,’ she said. ‘Haven’t the faintest.’

‘It was a very kind gesture.’

‘It was,’ she agreed. ‘I heard you got one as well from a certain someone?’

He scratched the back of his neck as his face flushed. ‘Er, yeah,’ he mumbled.

‘I didn’t think Bones would have it in her,’ Ginny commented.

‘Not that I don’t appreciate it,’ Neville said, ‘but I was sort of hoping to have one from someone else if I’m honest.’

They all knew he meant Luna. Hermione had seen how he looked at her as if she were made of starlight and moonlight – as if she _were_ it. And when they rolled her eyes at the stories she’d come out with, and the tales of creatures she and her father had seen, he would be the one listening with rapt attention. Like her words were sustenance and he would drown if she didn’t keep talking in that voice of poetry and lyricism and music.

Hermione was desperate, sometimes, for someone to look at _her_ that way.

‘My my, aren’t we getting confident?’

Neville glared at Dean. ‘I’m just _saying_.’

‘Maybe it’s someone on the committee, Hermione?’ Seamus said.

‘That sent the rose?’ she asked. ‘Maybe. There’s Justin, and that seventh-year Slytherin prefect, Harper, and Zacharias Smith from Hufflepuff, and…’

‘And?’ Ginny said, raising an eyebrow.

Hermione smoothed her hair back. It _couldn’t_ be. ‘Well, there’s Theo. But it couldn’t be him,’ she said quickly. ‘We’ve barely spoken since exams finished.’

Their looks were mixed. Some contemplative, some doubtful. Ginny looked slightly wicked.

‘That would make things interesting,’ she said. ‘Want me to ask him for you?’

‘ _No_!’ Hermione said sharply. Nearby students glanced over; she dipped her head and lowered her voice. ‘There’s about a naught-point-two percent chance that it’s even him.’

‘True,’ Ginny said. ‘Finch-Fletchley always _has_ had a bit more of a wandering eye than Nott.’

‘Ew,’ Seamus said.

Hermione echoed the sentiment.

‘It could be someone totally bizarre,’ Ginny said. ‘Like… like _Malfoy_.’

Hermione couldn’t help it. She barely had time to swallow a mouthful of water before laughter burst from her.

‘ _Malfoy_?’ she sputtered. ‘Could you _imagine_?’

 Seamus looked even more alarmed than had it been Justin. ‘That’s so disturbing. I mean, he always has had a _thing_ for Muggleborns. For Hermione. Unresolved sexual tension and all that.’

‘Jesus, Seamus,’ Hermione muttered. ‘Can you not?’

There _was_ something disturbing about the idea. Thinking about him writing the note, the warped smile on his face as he watched it prick her finger and let her blood run red. She’d always caught his glances and dismissed them as vague interest – the sort of curiosity one has when watching a strange creature, or a burning fire. And dismissed them, too, because she’d always looked at him the same. The way one would at a sharp blade, or a poisonous snake behind a glass pane.

The thought of him watching her now – with such different intentions, masked behind a veneer of casual boredom – made her skin crawl.

‘It wouldn’t be him, Hermione,’ Ginny said. She touched Hermione’s hand briefly. ‘I was just joking with you. Honest.’

Ginny winked at her – flashed a sly smile. But she glanced over Hermione’s shoulder at the Slytherin table, and when her face changed Hermione _knew_ that he was watching. 

Hermione didn’t turn, but she picked up her wand and pointed it at the rose. The flower lay, thorny and blood-red and limp on the table. Why did it have to be so bloody symbolic? Why couldn’t it have been a daisy, or a coronation?

‘ _Incendio_ ,’ she muttered.

A jet of orange and red flame flashed from her wand, quick as a camera flash. The flower grew ashy grey, creeping up the stem, and then to the petals, before disintegrating into a pile on the table.

She hoped Malfoy was watching – that he could see the pile of remains. And then she realised that maybe he’d hope for that. She’d seen that glimmer in her eye when they fought. Was this not the same thing? Had she only goaded him?

‘Blimey,’ Neville said, wide-eyed at the ashy shadow on the table. ‘Will you throw chocolates into the lake if I give you them for your birthday?’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ she said. ‘It was creepy. I don’t want to look at it.’

The conversation fell limp, and Hermione gathered her books.

‘I’m going to the library for the afternoon,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you at dinner.’

 

* * *

 

The library was dim and barely lit; snow-filled clouds let faint light leak through the windows in the walls. The study desks were mostly empty, and the rows of shelves were abandoned. Madame Pince was dusting a shelf with a cloth when Hermione walked in, setting her bag down at a table.

‘Miss Granger,’ the woman said. Her thin mouth was pursed and her voice austere.

‘Madame Pince,’ she replied. They had arrived at some sort of impasse over the years – a relationship of tolerance that involved both ignoring the other unless absolutely necessary.

So Madame Pince turned around and continued dusting the books with something akin to tenderness, and Hermione sat down at the table and began pulling out her books, parchment, and a Self-Inking Quill that George had given her for Christmas.

She started writing out her notes, and a model answer with a N.E.W.T mark scheme that she would take to Professor Slughorn when she was finished.

‘You’re keen,’ a voice said. Malfoy slid into the seat across the table. A pile of dust swarmed about his face as he put his books down – _A Collection of Essays on Duality Potions, A Companion to Potion-Making, Magyck used in Law_ , and _The Cosmos Curiosity._ There were a few others, their spines too thin and embossing too small for her to make out the words.

‘Speak for yourself,’ she said. She looked at the answer she’d written, realizing she’d forgotten entirely about critical commentary. ‘Are you reading all of those?’

‘I don’t have five sets of eyes, Granger,’ he pointed out. ‘Or is that your own little way of asking if you can borrow one without really asking?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

‘I think I can spare one,’ he said. ‘Which do you want?’

‘The essays. Please.’

He held it out, and she took it tentatively.

‘Thanks,’ she said warily. This was too easy.

‘It won’t bite,’ he told her.

‘I was thinking more about you.’

Malfoy rolled his eyes. It was an expression that Hermione had practiced herself all too well. He pulled one of the books closer to him, a sheet of parchment ready, and she found herself glancing up from her own book to see how he wrote his notes.

He wrote the potion out first from the textbook, and a brief description in his own words. And then he started bullet-pointing. Page number first – easier for citing – and then concise sentences. His handwriting was composed and elegant, like the kind you saw on Ministry letters, or on certificates. Hermione imagined him sitting in his father’s office, blond hair peeking out over the edge of the armchair, as he wrote sentence after sentence until it satisfied his father.

‘I never knew note-taking was of such entertainment for you, Granger,’ Malfoy said.

She glanced up at him, caught. ‘I was curious. I wondered if you used a different system to me.’

‘And?’

‘And you don’t. Not really. We both include the relevant information.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said dryly. ‘Now can I get back to this, or are you going to drive me to distraction all afternoon?’

She waved a hand. ‘By all means.’

He smiled at her in thanks so mockingly given that she almost wanted to laugh. But Madame Pince was watching them closely between the books on the shelves, and they were both too familiar with the woman’s quick temper. She looked exactly how Hermione had always imagined a witch would look – pointed and hooked and vulture-like, ready to start cackling at a moment’s notice.

Hermione tried to study after that. She added some points from the collection of essays to her answer, and then made a start on her Herbology homework: three rolls of parchment on the composition of a fertilizing plant that spontaneously burst into flames when in contact with water. And, given that it was native to the coasts of the Philippines’ islands, was rather often.

And though she tried, she also failed rather spectacularly, too. Her notes were brief and she knew would be useless when it came to revising. She couldn’t remember the name of the plant, or the island it originated from. She wouldn’t have even put her hand up if Professor Sprout had asked for its typical three uses.

Hermione sighed.

‘I was wondering,’ Malfoy said. His voice was disinterested; he didn’t look up from his notes. ‘Why did you do it?’

Hermione rubbed her eyes and settled the quill down. She was almost glad he’d asked, but she hated him for it too.

‘Because.’

‘Because what?’

‘Just because.’

He tilted his head. ‘Strange answer coming from you, Granger.’

‘Did you send it?’

‘Pardon me?’

Hermione crossed her arms, distantly aware that it showed how uncomfortable she was – how defensive and self-conscious.

‘Did you send me that rose?’

His expression was a slow-developing thing. Confused at first, then irritated, and finally amused.

‘Granger, I don’t know what you think I spend my time doing, but I can assure you it is not sending people _roses_.’ His gaze travelled up and down, a sort of softly pitying ‘poor you’ look, and she was instantly aware of the way her uniform fitted, how her hair was fairly unsuccessfully tucked into her bun, how dark the circles were beneath her eyes. ‘And, well, least of all to you.’

‘No offence?’

‘I’m not particularly bothered whether or not you’re offended, Granger.’

‘Of course you’re not.’

Stupid. Stupid to think he’d give a damn about her enough – good or bad – that he’d waste his time trying to gather her attention. Her false affection. With a _rose_. The strange thing was, she thought she’d almost _wanted_ it. She felt a dim sense of disappointment at his outright rejection. She tried to tell herself that it was simply that she wasn’t wanted – that someone hadn’t thought her worthy of a gift, good intentions or not. But a small part of her, so tiny, locked away in a dark little space behind her heart, thought it might have been something else.

‘You’re not… _disappointed_ , are you, Granger?’ he asked incredulously.

She quickly schooled her expression, mortified that perhaps it had shown. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped. It earnt her a ‘ _Shhh_!’ from Madame Pince, and she lowered her voice. ‘I just thought you’d done it as some sort of… joke. It would have made things simpler.’

‘You have a bizarre sense of humour.’

‘Obviously it was something I’d expected of _you_.’

‘Obviously.’

Hermione unwrapped the scarf from around her neck. ‘What are you reading?’ she asked, swallowing down the spite she could feel rising in her throat.

Malfoy held a book up, like it was a white flag he didn’t really want to raise. ‘Runes theory. The exam didn’t go quite as well as hoped. I’ve asked Babbage if I can re-do it as homework.’

‘Where did you go wrong?’ she asked curiously.

‘Not wrong… Just a little too… abstract.’

Hermione sighed. ‘You started writing about ancient Muggle linguistics, didn’t you?’ Malfoy’s look was stubborn; the same one he’d worn arguing with the Runes professor at the beginning of the year. She remembered the fierceness in his voice, that ice-fire in his eyes, like molten silver. ‘You know it still astounds me that you’ll give so much credit to Muggles’ ability for language development.’

‘It’s not exactly credit I’m giving, Granger,’ he said, with a voice that plainly said, ‘ _Don’t flatter yourself_.’ ‘But there’s billions of them, and only a million or even less of us. It wouldn’t be surprising that with the number of different cultures they’d develop… intersectionality at a faster rate.’

She was momentarily stunned. Not by the logic of his argument. But the words he’d used: Them. Us.

‘You consider me an ‘us’?’ she asked quietly.

He gave her a measured look. ‘You are a part of one ‘us’,’ he said. ‘Now there is the magical community ‘us’. There is a pure-blood ‘us’. There are different ‘us’s. Don’t confuse yours and my identity as sharing anything other than belonging to the former.’

A shadow fell over the table.

‘If the two of you cannot work in silence I must ask you both to leave. _This is a library_.’

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at Madame Pince. ‘And this library is empty, Madame Pince. We’re not disturbing anyone.’

‘The _books_ can _hear_ you,’ she seethed. She spun on the spot, black skirts whirling around her calves, and disappeared back into the shelves that stretched back so far that Hermione could not see where they ended into the darkness.

‘Nutter,’ Malfoy muttered, but Hermione ignored him; her head was still spinning.

Us and them. How mundane the words were. How heavy they pressed upon her.


	14. Chapter 14

The snow had started to melt in the week leading up to the Quidditch match. Patches of green started to creep behind the ice, but the wind was still wintry and the teams wore wraps around the neck to stop their skin from freezing in the cold.

The stadium was packed, filled with flashes of green and red, silver and yellow. Hermione wished Harry and Ron could have been here; the atmosphere was alive. No fear of Death Eaters, or dementors. No bewitching of brooms or Bludgers. _Alive_.

Students were buzzing in their seats, cheering, singing house songs. George had come to the match; Hermione waved at him from where he sat in the staff box.

A trumpet played and the sound of Luna’s voice spoke out over the stadium, wistful but fast-paced, mimicking the movements of the game.

The Gryffindor team came out first, clad in red and gold that looked so bright against the falling snow. Ginny led them in strong formation, hair streaming behind her and somehow managing not to whip around her face and in her eyes. Unsurprisingly, Hermione noted a few second years in the team. Not all seventh and eighth years had returned to Hogwarts that year, either taking a year of absence or hoping their education thus far had been sufficient. 

The Slytherins swarmed out next. The cheering was polite, pierced by boos and hissing. The atmosphere was playful; it was team-rivalry. But Hermione tensed. Even she could see the frown on Malfoy’s face as he and his team flew out in sharp unison, eyes glancing around the stands as if he could see who exactly had jeered at his team.

Blaise and Nott were paired behind him, followed by Vaisey, Urquhart, and again two other female second or third year students.

‘This isn’t going to be a difficult one,’ Neville said. He understood Quidditch about as much as Hermione had always done, which, incidentally, was not very much at all, but the track record of Slytherin games against Gryffindor had been notoriously poor.

‘I’m not so sure,’ Hermione said, watching the players circle the pitch as their names were called. ‘Malfoy’s been training them almost twice a week, and every night this week.’

‘Keeping a close eye on him, are you?’

Hermione shifted in her seat, buttoning up her jacket and pulling her scarf over her mouth. ‘Hardly,’ she finally muttered, didn't tell him that the real reason was that they both didn't sleep much because maybe they didn't want to be alone even if each other was all they had offered, maybe because they didn't want to have to dream. ‘We’re in the common room a lot. It’s just his absence is notable. Besides, he keeps traipsing mud and snow around the place, and _I’m_ the only one other than the elves that ever cleans up.’

Neville laughed, but his reply was drowned out by the shrill sound of the whistle.

The teams touched to the ground, standing astride their brooms. Ginny and Malfoy stood in front of Madame Hooch. Ginny’s look was fierce, and Malfoy’s was sly. They shook hands; Hermione wondered if the either would have if they hadn’t worn gloves.

‘Now I want this game to be a good and interesting one for the right reasons,’ Madame Hooch said, loud enough that her voice rang through the stands. ‘Any foul play and you’ll be off this pitch faster than you can say Snitch, do you understand?’

‘Yes, Madame Hooch,’ Ginny said.

Malfoy jutted his chin out in what Hermione supposed was a nod.

The players hovered on their brooms, the snitch was released, and then the Quaffle was thrown into the air.

The match had begun.

 

* * *

 

 

The players darted into the air, and Hermione found herself questioning if they’d ever been that fast before. They’d done away with the capes this year, and the players from both teams looked sleek and swift, as if they were now contained bundles of energy that cut through the air like bullets.

Slytherin scored the first points, and Ginny shouted out to the Keeper on the Gryffindor team, before swiftly hurling the Quaffle through the largest goal.

Bludgers shocked through clouds and falling snow, ricocheting off the Beaters’ bats with a sound that reverberated around the stands like cracking thunder.

The Keepers were the only ones that seemed slow, missing one goal and letting in the next. But the Chasers were too fast – from both sides. They’d slide past the Bludgers like they were swatting at flies, and pass the Quaffle between the three of them faster than the snow could melt on Hermione’s skin.

The game continued like that, cat and mouse: Slytherin scoring, and Gryffindor following swift on their heels.

Hermione found her head moving back and forth enough that her neck ached. They were unrelenting in their attacks.

‘Poor defence,’ Dean commented.

‘I’m not sure,’ Parvati countered. ‘I think they’re both just _really_ good.’

‘If one of them breaks through they’ll have it,’ Seamus said.

‘Let’s not forget the Snitch,’ Hermione said.

They all looked up.

Malfoy had been still the whole match, stationary so many feet above the ground. Not a hair on his head seemed to move. If not for the green uniform, he would have blended in with the wintry weather – pale hair, pale skin invisible against the white backdrop.  

The Gryffindor seeker, a girl Luna had only referred to as Anette over the speaker, moved around the pitch in a continuous loop, black hair flicking into her dark face.

Harry, for the most part, used to stay still.

‘If I keep moving I’ll probably just end up following the Snitch around the pitch,’ he’d say. ‘If I’m still, there’s a better chance it’ll fly past.’

‘She’s not going to get it,’ Hermione said.

Seamus looked at her with that sort of cheery amusement of his. ‘Did you become an expert overnight?’

‘No,’ Hermine said slowly, ‘but look at the Slytherins.’ They looked. ‘Not a single would-be foul. They’re changed. Look how determined they are. Their movements are tighter – they’re more controlled. They look like a unit and not just some sort of wild, rogue Bludger. Malfoy can get the Snitch because he’s not seeing how many Gryffindors have been knocked out, or trying to shout instructions like Ginny’s having to do. They’re a single-minded team and—’

Luna’s voice cut in, ringing through the stadium. ‘It looks like Malfoy’s seen the Snitch!’

And it looked like he had. He was fast. _So_ fast. Hermione hadn’t seen someone fly like that in a long time. His jaw was set, eyes narrowed behind his goggles. The blusters of wind swallowed him whole, so that he was lost to her in glimpses, brief snatches of time.

‘How the hell does he see anything in this weather?’ Neville said. His voice contained something like awe.

But Hermione knew how. She saw that boy’s bloodied body on the pitch. Blaise’s shaking and the way he leaned behind him to vomit. Malfoy’s apology to McGonagall echoing in her head. He could see something because he’d practiced in this; it had ended in broken bones and detentions and Malfoy _catching the Snitch_.

It was there, gleaming and fluttering in his hand, wings beating frantically as he held it in the air.

He pumped his arm twice.

 _Look at me_ , it said. I _won_. I _caught_ _it_.

Then his feet hit the ground and he walked across to Madame Hooch. He put the Snitch in the yellow-eyed woman’s palm, his team following behind him off the pitch. Theo’s face wore a barely concealed grin, but Zabini’s was typically impassive. The Slytherins’ cheers were deafening, and they made Hermione’s bones thrum.

‘Bloody _hell_ ,’ Seamus said, leaning back in his seat, hands clasped on top of his head.

‘Poor _Ginny_ ,’ Parvati said, putting her chin in her cupped palms, elbows resting on her knees.

The pair couldn’t have looked more shocked and dejected if they’d tried.

Ginny was still on her broom, head in her hands. She couldn’t be crying. It wasn’t her. But Hermione wondered about the temper that would unleash later. Annette was looking from Ginny to Malfoy like she was still trying to figure out what had happened. She probably was.

‘And so Slytherin wins this match,’ Madame Hooch called out, microphone pressed to her throat. ‘Congratulations to the captain, Draco Malfoy, and commiserations to the Gryffindor captain, Ginny Weasley. Our next match will be between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff in three to four weeks, weather depending. Good luck with your training, teams.’

The stands started emptying, but they were abuzz with an excited hum of energy.

‘They haven’t beaten Gryffindor since 1990!’ Hermione overheard someone say.

‘It was a fix,’ she heard another say. ‘Damned Death Eaters. The lot of them. Could you imagine if they’d made a foul?’

She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach at the words.

‘That’s rubbish. Malfoy’s on the pitch training every day.’ It was Ernie MacMillan; his voice had that perpetually proud ring to it. Hermione tried to hide her smile. She couldn’t think of the last time someone other than Pansy had tried to defend Malfoy. ‘It’s no surprise, really.’

The debate went on as she walked out of the stadium with Neville and the others, careful not to slip on the steps, hands clinging to icy railings. But no one could deny the talent they’d seen. There was a collective sense of shock – like it had been over too soon and they didn’t have enough time understand what had happened. And it had been over too soon. The snow hadn’t had time to settle.

‘We were thinking of going back to the Gryffindor common room if you’d fancy coming?’ Dean asked Hermione.

Parvati passed him a doubtful look. ‘I’m not sure the team would be much up for entertaining there, Dean. Especially not Ginny. She was convinced she’d win this morning.’

Hermione recalled the grin Ginny had set off with in the morning, eyes shining prettily. She’d been glowing since her day out with Harry, and Hermione hated to see that dimmed.

‘We could go to Hogsmeade for a drink?’ Seamus said. ‘I could do with a red currant rum or three.’

‘Seamus, it’s _eleven o’clock_ ,’ Hermione told him.

‘What’s yer point?’ he said.

She rolled her eyes. ‘I think I’ll just go sit in front of the fire with a cup of tea. I’ve got reading to do.’

Neville yawned as they approached the courtyard to the castle; older students were donning coats and hats before they went down to Hogsmeade. ‘That doesn’t sound half bad, actually,’ he admitted. ‘Professor Sprout’s asked me to proofread a new guide to Goshawk’s that she’s edited and I’d haven’t even touched it yet.’ 

‘Merlin, you lot are boring,’ Seamus complained.

‘It’s not awful to want some quiet, Seamus,’ Parvati told him. She glanced at Dean. ‘I’m going to meet Padma, all right?’

‘I thought we were supposed to… hang out?’

‘That was before the match finished two hours earlier than expected,’ Parvati said. She touched his cheek lightly, then turned to the others. ‘See you all later.’

Seamus let out a low whistle as she left. ‘She’s got you, mate.’

Dean pushed against his friend’s shoulder playfully. ‘Shove off.’

They branched off. Neville to the greenhouses, Seamus and Dean to the Gryffindor common room. Hermione went to the eighth year common room.

It was empty inside, but a fire was lit, and she caught the muddy footprints that marred the floorboards. He was sitting where she knew he would be. He still wore his Quidditch boots; his goggles lay on the coffee table and sat in a small puddle from the melted snow.

‘Shouldn’t you be celebrating with your team?’ she asked, flopping down onto the sofa. Hermione pulled off her boots and tucked her feet beneath her. Her cold hands burned from the heat of the fire.

‘Is that a rule?’

‘Do you have to answer every question with a question?’

‘Do you want me to?’

‘You’re more than mildly infuriating.’

Malfoy smirked. He put his feet on the table, boots crossed at the ankles. They were caked with mud and wet with snow.

‘Do you _have_ to?’ she sighed. ‘People _eat_ off that.’

‘I know you’re not the most civilised being, Granger, but I thought people ate off plates.’

‘Don’t be obtuse,’ she muttered. She crossed her arms. ‘Well done. By the way.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Did that hurt?’

‘Like walking on hot coals,’ she said. ‘And you could say _thank you_.’ Because she didn’t have to congratulate him. They could have sat there in silence, and their relationship – whatever it could be called – would be no more and no less than it had been that morning if she hadn’t. But the determination in his eyes had been fierce, and she remembered his _need_ to have the extra players at the beginning of the year. Like there’d been something quietly burning in him. Like he had something to prove.

‘Is it your father?’ she asked quietly.

His eyes darted to hers. They were the colour of memories and ghosts and prophecies. She wondered instantly if that was partly why she feared looking into them so much – because she would see more than into him, or a reflection of herself. But she’d see _inside_ herself, inside things she’d wanted to keep hidden, perhaps forever.

‘I’m sorry?’ he said.

‘Your father. Prisoners get a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , don’t they? Hogwarts Quidditch scores always get printed with the team names.’ She touched her arm absently. ‘I kept the copies with Ron’s and Harry’s name in. Sentiment. It’s stupid, really.’

Malfoy pulled off his gloves once she’d finished speaking; she thought she saw his hands shake. His boots came next. He wore green socks, and this amused her. And then he pulled his robes over his head, and he wore only fitted trousers and a white long-sleeved Henley. He looked remarkably _normal_.

‘I won, Granger,’ he said at last, his uniform folded neatly on the floor. He cast a Cleaning spell on his boots, and Hermione watched as the mud footprints disappeared one by one from the floorboards, erasing any hint of his having been there. ‘That’s all there is to it. Not everything has to have a reason.’

‘I like reasons, remember?’ she told him. She was only half-joking. ‘They help everything to make a bit more sense.’

He shot her an exasperated look. ‘Well maybe that’s your _problem_ , Granger – you’re expecting things to make sense. And most things just don’t.’ He waved a hand toward her. ‘I mean, look at _you_.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked carefully. A pit started to open in her stomach. The conversation had that _feel_ to it.

‘You’re Muggleborn,’ he said. ‘Not a trace of magic in your family. Two… teeth people. Whatever you call them. And then suddenly there’s this little girl that can make fire and water come out of her fingertips. You think _that’s_ normal? Or logical? You’re an anomaly, Granger. And if you’re that desperate to try and figure things out about other people, maybe you should take a look at yourself first.’

His words were dangerous, a hidden meaning lying too close to the surface. Wind howled outside, a snow storm crashing into the window panes of the tower.

‘I can’t tell whether you’re trying to offend me or not,’ she said.

‘I am.’

‘ _Malfoy_ —’

‘Calm down, Granger. I’m just—’

‘Do _not_ tell me to calm down.’

He held his hands up. ‘All right. And for the record, I was just kidding. I’m not stupid.’

She laughed, and it tasted bitter on her tongue. ‘But you’re still racist?’

‘Granger—’

‘You know what I’m talking about—’

‘Yeah. Yeah, we’re talking about _you_. It’s always about _you_.’

‘What’s _that_ supposed to mean?’

He didn’t reply instantly. His lips were parted, and his eyes so wide, like he was made of electric. He looked ridiculous, standing there in his green socks, and, despite it all, some small part of her wanted to laugh.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said at last, quiet, and his eyes dropped and his shoulders rounded like he wasn’t quite as alive as he had been a moment ago.

‘Do you still believe it?’ Hermione asked, head tilted. ‘Did you ever?’

He only glanced at her, jaw clenched.

‘Do I really disgust you so much?’

He sat back down, and he put his head in his hands, hair tousled and wet with rain and snow and sweat. ‘For fuck's sake, Granger, I…’

She’d never seen him so small before, so turned in on himself. If it was Harry or Ron, she would have put a hand on their shoulder.

But the thought of doing the same to him made her hand shake, and her nerves felt shot.

Not because it was Malfoy, but because in a minute he might tell her that the blood that ran beneath her skin sickened him. That she was monstrous and that every word his father and Voldemort had whispered into his ear was true. And she’d defended him before, and _worried_ about him, when Barty Crouch Jr transfigured him, and when Buckbeak dragged his claws down Malfoy’s arm. And his uncertainty had saved her – saved them all – when Bellatrix gripped her throat and he hadn’t given her away. Because he might have not looked at her, but he hadn’t given her up. Hadn’t given them up. Put his family at risk for them. She knew she was willing to forgive him a lot for that, but not too much.

‘I don’t want to have this conversation with you. Not again,’ he said. ‘You’re obsessing over it.’

She swallowed, scratching at the raised skin over her arm. She knew if she pressed much harder it would bleed. She was allowed to obsess over it, wasn’t she? Over an organisation that sought her termination and would have killed her with a flash of green. She was entitled to cling onto that. To find some meaning that stretched beyond dirty blood and an investment in her inferiority.

‘Are we always going to argue?’ she said. ‘Is this it? For the rest of the year? Just – just shouting until one of us gives up or drowns the other out?’

He laughed mirthlessly. ‘You _honestly_ think we know how to do anything differently, Granger?’

She knew the answer was ‘no’, so she didn’t say anything at all. He got up from the chair with an elegance that she felt shamed by. It was fluid and graceful and something about it rang of being beyond this room, this castle, the walls of even this world.

‘Granger,’ he said, picking up his folded clothes and boots. ‘Look… The placement. The thing about the Treasury…’

She was searching his face for any sort of lie, but her heartrate had picked up, and she felt the tell-tale signs of excitement prickling at her. She was too eager to believe any lie he told her right now, and that was something she’d never wanted to put her faith into.

‘You’re going to _tell_ me?’ she said. ‘ _Now_?’

‘I need a second opinion,' he said, but she thought that maybe it was something else. Maybe it was appeasement. A white flag, maybe, that was spotted with blood.

‘What, and Goyle’s isn’t stimulating enough?’

She shouldn’t have taunted him, and the dark look he threw at her was justified.

‘Sorry. I thought you’d taken a vow so you couldn’t tell me?’

‘I lied. I just didn’t know whether I _wanted_ to tell you.’ He ignored the sharp look she gave him and ran a hand through his hair. ‘They don’t let me sit in on all the meetings,’ he told her. ‘But I’ve seen Shacklebolt’s schedule. Sometimes his secretary lets me sit with her when she takes floo messages and owls. She really should have a bit more integrity than letting an eighteen-year-old flirt with her.’

Hermione rolled her eyes. ‘I’m assuming not many greying fifty-year-olds have someone like you flirting with them.’

‘She’s a brunette, actually,’ he said. ‘And probably only twenty. Penelope. She’s French. Very charming.’

Irritation clawed at her; her foot jumped in impatience. ‘Get to the point, Malfoy.’

He smiled at her knowingly. ‘Some of the meetings are with the Minister of the Treasury. Sometimes Penelope has to write up the notes.’ He shook his head. ‘She _really_ should have a bit more discretion.’

‘ _Malfoy_.’

‘The meetings are fascinatingly boring from what I’ve read,’ he continued. ‘Lots of numbers. Reports on inflation and market capitalization and finance reports. And what seemed like an indefinite number of studies on countries that have been through civil wars. The Muggles really are at each other’s throats a lot, aren’t they?’

He shook his head again, as if there was an internal monologue running in his head, or a one-sided argument, and he started pacing.

He turned his head towards her, and his look was studying, and curious, weighted with evaluation. Like he was trying to predict her expression – her reaction. But he looked like a cage beast, too, wondering if she’d run if he moved closer, wondering how quickly he could get his teeth around her neck.

He said, eventually, ‘Someone’s embezzling funds from the Ministry.'

And Hermione blinked. For a minute, heard static. ‘I’m sorry, _what_?’

‘Someone’s taking money out of the Treasury. Emptying vaults, diverting income and expenditure. At first I thought it was just small sums. Maybe miscalculations – wouldn’t be a surprise. But I think it’s more than that, now. I think it’s something _much_ bigger. Like, not only hindering economic recovery but actually pushing us further into a recession.’

She was shaking her head. ‘You’re mad,’ she said, breathy. ‘You can’t just draw a conclusion like that based on – on minutes from meetings.’

‘I haven’t. I found the archives where the reports are held. I went to Gringotts under Ministry authority that was not, well, under Ministry authority. Vaults that on paper should have hundreds – _thousands_ of Galleons in have been cleared out.’

‘You could have been caught, Malfoy,’ she said, but she didn’t mean it. Her head was spinning.

‘I appreciate your faith in me,’ he said dryly. ‘Besides, you would have done the same.’

‘Please tell me you weren’t just thinking _what would Hermione Granger do_?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I was thinking, _what would Tom Riddle do?'_

She swallowed; her mind tripped over itself as she tried to think. ‘And you want my opinion on _what_ , exactly?’

‘Why do you think it’s being taken?’

‘On the basis that I _believe_ you,’ she began, ‘shouldn’t you be looking at a suspect before you look at a reason?’

‘It’s easier this way. If you find a reason then your list of suspects grows infinitely smaller.’

Her brow furrowed. She felt herself being pulled away, coral broken off from the ocean’s bed, or a tree’s roots torn from the earth. Into the world Malfoy had created in a few minutes – intrigue and politics. And she couldn’t help it, because this was what she’d wanted and needed. She went with it like snow caught in the wind, helplessly, hopelessly. And all too willingly.

‘Are you asking for my help, Malfoy?’

‘I’m asking for your smarts – your intelligence.’

‘Then you need to get me into the Ministry.’

It was his turn to wear the expression of disbelief – of suspicion. ‘Sorry – have I _missed_ something?’

‘I can’t work from non-entities, Malfoy,’ she told him. ‘I need to see those reports. I need to look at those vaults. I need to—’

‘All right. I get it.’ He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. ‘I mean, _think_ about this. It’s you. You could walk into the Ministry any day and be welcomed with open arms.’

‘That doesn’t mean I can go snooping around without some sort of cover,’ she said. She doubted his words. The Ministry might have been infiltrated with Death Eaters, but likewise very few of its ministers had stood up. They’d bitten their tongues and bent their necks. So many had followed Fudge when Voldemort had returned. So how many would really, _truly_ welcome her? She might have helped win the war, but how many would thank her – be grateful for the way they’d done it, or that the other side had been so vanquished? ‘Good will out,’ Dumbledore used to say. But maybe there’d been too much good for the Ministry’s liking.

Hermione cleared her throat; he was looking at her too closely, like he could get inside her head and hear her thoughts if he tried hard enough. Maybe he could. ‘I could… always offer Kingsley some help? Go straight to the source.’

Malfoy scoffed at her suggestion. ‘Sorry, but how _exactly_ are you going to explain the fact that you know about this? You’d drop me straight into it and I’d be accused of trespassing and Merlin knows what else they could pin onto me. They’ll be gagging to put any charge on all of us once we’re out of here.’

She didn’t need to ask who he meant by ‘us’.

‘Maybe… maybe he’ll take on another intern,’ Hermione said. ‘There are two of you, aren’t there? How useful is the other person?’

Malfoy shrugged. ‘They’re there on a different day. Penelope said their name was Charlotte. She said she liked me more.’

‘Of course she did,’ Hermione muttered.

‘Look, I’ll owl Shacklebolt,’ he said. ‘See if I can pull some strings for you.’

She smiled dryly. ‘My how the tables have turned.’

‘Don’t be so… self-pitying, Granger. It doesn’t suit you.’

‘Says the one who mocked me for actually having _faith_ in myself.’ For putting her hand up, for fighting for what she believed in. For _being_ herself. And she’d never apologise for that. Never excuse herself just so he wouldn’t stop a game of charades behind her back, or so he wouldn’t pass a comment that made her shoulders drop and heart dip in her chest.

‘I didn’t mock you for that,’ he said. ‘I mocked you because you were always _better_ than me.’

Hermione drew back into the sofa.

‘Malfoy,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t like I shoved it in your face. I didn’t try to—’

‘I know. But every time I tried to forget it my father took pains to make me remember. You’ve _got_ to know what that’s like. To grow up with your parent constantly reminding you that there’s someone better. That, in some _minute_ way that _really_ doesn’t matter all that much, their father is seeing that person more than they are their son.’ His voice was vague and unsentimental. He told her absolutely nothing, but it didn’t need to when his words said absolutely everything.

‘Malfoy,’ she said. She was so aware of the Snitch that lay on the table, wings folded in. It looked so innocuous. She wondered what Malfoy must have seen as he looked at it.

‘I’m actually not blaming you,’ he said, like he was surprised at himself. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘It wasn’t yours, either. It’s not really anyone’s fault.’ She paused. ‘You know, you could blame your father. If you wanted to.’

‘Yeah, I could,’ he said. His eyes were roaming her face. ‘But it gets pretty tiring trying to accuse someone all the time, doesn’t it?’

The world slowed for a moment, the time it took to breathe. The snow froze in the air, the stars stilled in their constellations. She thought that this must be what it was like. To watch someone grow when you thought they’d already stopped. To see them learn, eyes wide open. It must have felt like watching a flower blooming in spring, a lake freezing over in winter, a butterfly breaking out of a cocoon. It was like the world had started turning in the right direction.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said, turning away from her. He was still holding his Quidditch uniform, so he put it on the table, and kneeled by the fire to add another log.

‘I’m not looking at you like anything.’

‘ _Yes_ – you are,’ he snapped. He jabbed at the embers with an iron poker. ‘Like I’ve been redeemed. Like you’ve – you’ve _finally_ broken through to the _real me_. I know that bullshit’s not beyond even you, Granger.’

‘I was just thanking god that you’re not going to be like Lucius,’ she said quietly.

His laugh was a sort of choking sound, harsh and guttural. Too short and hard to be amused.

‘You’re really something.’

‘Better than being nothing,’ she said. Shouldn’t have said it – not really. Not because she didn’t believe it – and she _didn’t_ – but because, perhaps for once, she was actually nervous of what he might say back. Of what he might think of her.

And he looked at her with an expression that was easy and readable, and she _knew_ he thought that was bullshit, and she felt like she could breathe a little easier.

‘Let’s just see what Shacklebolt says,’ was all he said, the words tossed over his shoulder as he walked towards the boys’ corridor. ‘I’ll owl him first thing.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've received some absolutely mind-blowing comments/compliments these past few days, and I just wanted to say how grateful I am to everyone who has been reading and commenting and 'kudos-ing'. I've worked on this fanfic for over a year on-and-off, when I should have been revising or when I got bored or when I needed something simple (or not-so-simple) to turn to. In a way it's been a sort of compilation of the past year that's evolved as it grew, and it really really really means a lot to me that you guys are receiving this as kindly as you are. So thank you. x


	15. Chapter 15

Malfoy owled, and they waited.

And Hermione grew instantly aware of _everything_.

Of the second-hand books, and robes with holes in. Of the bitterness that seeped uncensored onto front-page headlines. She saw the students in the shops of Hogsmeade, and heard the absolute silence of the tills.

It wasn’t sadness she felt anymore, or a sort of hopelessness as she looked around at friends and strangers who _needed_ hope. It was just anger. That someone _dared_ take these people’s money – their income – their future and hope of rebuilding what they’d lost. And perhaps even more so that the Ministry’s resources weren’t being focused on how to move forward; they were still held back by someone who thwarted the good. Like ‘good’ was an impossibility, and that all Hermione and Harry and Ron had fought for (and Tonks and Fred and Lupin and Moody and Lavender Brown and everybody that had been covered and buried and even those yet to be found) had been for nothing. That they _still_ hadn’t won.

‘Chin up, Granger.’

She looked behind her and slowed her running. Rocks and icy shingle skidded under feet as she came to a standstill at the edge of the Great Lake, and they clattered across the frozen surface. Students slid across the lake on skates, and there were a small group of students playing a game of hockey with an enchanted puck and sticks that the opposite team could charm.

Hermione pulled down the scarf from around her mouth.

‘What do you want?’ she said, catching her breath and wiping the sweat from her forehead. The air was bitter, but her skin burned and her heart thudded in her rib cage.

Blaise shrugged. ‘I could do with a running partner,’ he said.

She frowned. ‘And I couldn’t?’

‘Don’t be antisocial.’

She stared at him. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’

‘Hm?’

‘You can’t just bombard your way into someone’s personal time and then tell them they’re being antisocial.’

‘Blaise!’

They both turned, watching as Theo ran towards them, like he didn’t know how his limbs worked – or how long they were. He was about as graceless as Malfoy was graceful.

‘You should see him try to dance,’ Blaise muttered.

Hermione looked sharply at him. ‘Don’t be cruel.’

He shrugged.

‘Do you _have_ to sprint off all the time?’ Theo panted. He raised his hand in greeting to Hermione as he came to Blaise’s side.

‘It’s not my fault you can’t keep up,’ Blaise said.

‘Yeah, but you’re kind of expected to run at my pace when you’re the one that asks _me_ out for a run.’

Blaise patted the head boy on the arm. ‘It’s good for you. It toughens you up.’

‘Aren’t you a good friend?’ Hermione said.

He bared his teeth at her. It could not be mistaken for a smile. ‘An impeccable one.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Now. If you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.’

‘It’s a circular lake, Granger,’ Blaise said. ‘There’s only one way to go. May as well let us run with you.’

‘Then I’ll run the other way.’ She looked at Theo. ‘No offence.’

He held his hands up. ‘None taken. I wouldn’t want to run with me, either.’

Hermione smiled at him before pulling the scarf back up around her mouth. She could feel the chill setting into her again – she needed to _move_.

‘Not so fast, Granger,’ Blaise said. ‘Malfoy’s looking for you.’

Theo glanced at him.

‘Where is he?’ Hermione asked, and Theo glanced back at her.

He _knows_ , she thought. _He knows I’m up to something_.

‘He was near the Owlery last time I saw him,’ Blaise said. ‘Said something about a Runes essay?’

‘Oh. Right. Yes.’

‘Runes essay?’ Theo asked. ‘It’s not due for two weeks.’

‘You know me,’ Hermione said. ‘Always wanting to get ahead. Malfoy had some books he said he would lend me – from the library at his home.’

They looked at her – and they were Slytherin looks. One might not have been as sharp as the other’s, but they were calculating. _Truth or lie?_ they said. It was a look her teachers used to give her, and she’d feel so _guilty_ , biting her tongue as she stood beside Harry and Ron to stop herself from telling them the truth. She thought she wouldn’t have to keep biting her tongue and swallowing the lump in her throat once _it_ was over.

But they weren’t teachers, and she was Hermione Granger, so Theo just shrugged and looked away, and Blaise’s gaze was nothing more than curiosity.

‘Excuse me,’ she muttered, brushing past them. The run back to the castle was uphill, and she stumbled a few times, feeling their eyes on her back, but she didn’t stop.

 

* * *

 

 

Malfoy was feeding his eagle owl a handful of seeds when she finally got there. Her thighs were burning from the run and the hike up the icy steps, and he raised an eyebrow at her matted hair and flushed skin.

‘I was _running_ ,’ she said defensively, after a minute of catching her breath.

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘For once.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘I take it you saw Blaise.’

‘He said you had a message for me. Is it Kingsley? It’s been a week.’

She let herself fall onto the seat in the centre of the room, aching legs outstretched. She must have looked like she felt. She’d pushed herself too far: her shins were sore, and her breath felt ravaged as it tore itself through her lungs. She never got the time to feel it usually, because she didn’t have the time to think when something was at her back. A dragon. A goblin. A Death Eater.

Malfoy passed her a letter, folded neatly in his pocket. She took it, ignoring the humoured look he gave her, taking in her muddied clothes and wild hair. She looked like he did after Quidditch practice, but he didn’t scold her for treading mud through the Owlery.

‘You’ve not even read it?’ she asked, regarding him with surprise.

The letter bore his name on it, along with a Ministry stamp, but the envelope was sealed and unmarked. As if he’d been here this whole time – waiting. There was no certainty that she’d even come.

‘What is it with you and thinking I read everyone’s post?’ he said.

‘This is _yours_ , though.’

He let out an exasperated breath. ‘Are you going to read it or not, Granger?’

She answered by sliding her thumb beneath the fold of the envelope. She pulled out the contents with care and unfolded the sheets of parchment. The writing was clear and legible, as if Kingsley had practiced at it.

‘Mr Malfoy,’ Hermione read aloud. ‘I hope you are well. Thank you for your letter.

‘I have given some thought to your request, and needless to say it has not taken me long to come to a decision. As you have said, Miss Granger excels in all areas of magic, both in practice and theory…’

Malfoy was running his fingers down the bird’s head when Hermione glanced up, but she caught the slight hesitancy in his movements as she read the words. He stood so still she thought he would shatter if she touched him.

She cleared her throat. ‘I am very sorry to hear that you are finding the placement to be to your dissatisfaction. This is the first year such an opportunity has been presented to students and other individuals, and I read your letter with regret that we had not succeeded in stimulating your academic and work-place oriented curiosities and aspirations.

‘I personally apologise that we have not worked harder to ensure that the challenges and opportunities that we presented to you were sufficient. I do wish that you had spoken with myself or Percy Weasley, your placement coordinator, before withdrawing yourself from the scheme, but I understand if you believe a resolution could not have been found.’

Hermione was shaking her head as she skimmed the rest of the letter. She looked up at him. ‘Malfoy, you _didn’t_.’

He gave her a pointed look. ‘Evidently I did, Granger.’

‘But – _why_? We could – we were going to work on this _together_ —’

‘And that would have worked so well, Granger,’ he cut in. ‘You _know_ the Ministry – more than just how it’s laid out. You know the people – how they work. And they _trust_ you. You can get yourself places that I can’t.’ He made a sound like a laugh that hadn’t yet manifested itself. ‘Ironically, the Malfoy name cannot get me as far as yours can now.’

She stood and held out the letter. ‘Write back to him. Tell him you made a mistake.’

But he stepped back, away from her. ‘I won’t. People need you more – you can give them more than I can, Granger.’

‘Why do you have to be so bloody selfless the _one_ time I need you not to be?’

‘Why does it mean that much to you, Granger?’ he asked. ‘You get to do the placement. You get to save the day again. I thought this was what you wanted?’

‘Not like this,’ she said. She could feel the lump in her throat, and her eyes were stinging from more than the sweat that ran down her brow.

‘What – because you didn’t win this fairly? You haven’t cheated, Granger. I gave up _my_ place for _you_. You could at least thank me, you know.’

‘I _never_ asked you to do that, Malfoy.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You didn’t specify, either.’

‘So that’s it? You’re just going to step back and let someone else do the work _for_ you? You’re just going to _give up_?’

He looked at her, eyes darting to her face like a lightning strike, and Hermione felt like she’d been struck.

‘How _dare_ you,’ he seethed. He walked towards her, and she stepped back until the backs of her knees hit the bench and she was forced to sit.

Malfoy towered over her. He put his hands either side of her head on the back of the bench. His face was inches from hers, and she could see the way his irises fractured into every shade of grey and silver possible, like a broken mirror of light.

‘I did this for you, Granger,’ he said quietly. His breath smelled of mint, and it felt cold on her face, unfurling in white clouds. ‘Because you’ve been ill.’ He pressed a finger to his right temple. ‘In here. You’ve been sad. You aren’t sleeping. You _barely_ eat.’ He bowed his head. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Granger, I enjoy our little arguments. Truly, I do. But you _thrive_ off them. And I know that, because sometimes I do, too. But I – I _thought_ this would help. Give you a purpose. A distraction.’

Hermione searched his face. ‘You’re lying,’ she whispered, and she felt the tears fall free now. Easy. ‘You don’t give a shit about me. You thought this would… _abstain_ you. From guilt. Because you stood there. You _stood_ there while she did this to me.’ She unzipped her thin running jacket, and when he straightened and walked away from her, she made saw he saw it. That he couldn’t look away from it. Because no matter how much flesh healed, and skin would repair, no one could mistake the words for anything other than what they were.

She bit back a sob, but it cut through her throat anyway. ‘You _let_ her do this to me, Draco Malfoy. And you _stood_ there. And you did _nothing_.’

 _‘I would have been killed_!’ he shouted. ‘And so would _you_ , you – you _stupid_ little girl!’

‘So all you care about is self-preservation?’

‘ _I_ have scars too, Granger,’ he spat.

‘What? _That_?’ It almost scared her that he thought they were the same. ‘No. No, the difference between yours and mine, Malfoy, is that you _chose_ yours.’

He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You thinking I’m talking about the _mark_? Are you fucking kidding me?’

‘What else could you _possibly_ mean then, Malfoy?’ Hermione spat. She wiped angrily at her eyes with the corner of her sleeves. She could feel the rage bubbling up in her; she supposed this must what how a volcano worked – waiting so quietly until it burned up like a furnace inside, until its insides tore themselves apart and released something like a glimpse into hell.

And so he showed her.

He took off his coat first, letting it fall onto the filthy floor. And then he pulled his jumper over his head – it was blue and the colour of the sky that morning – and it followed. His fingers went to the buttons on his shirt.

‘Malfoy…’

But one by one they were undone, and that, too, fell to the floor in a pile, until she no longer wanted to look at him.

But he told her. Told her to _look_ at him, for _fuck’s sake._

And so she did. And she did not like what she saw.

 

* * *

 

 

The scars were red, angry, like they hadn’t healed. Claw-like gouges that were ridged with torn scar tissue and warped the muscles across his abdomen.

They wrapped around his torso, tapering off around his waist, but they filled so much of his pale skin that for a moment it seemed like they were him. Like he had been made of them and born of them.

She wanted to touch them, run her fingers ove

r them, and see if they felt like hers did – so distantly aware of the small crease of skin on her arm.

‘Tell me,’ she said, her voice distant to her ears. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

‘Fenrir Greyback,’ he said. The name fell off his tongue slowly, but nothingness filled his voice. ‘It was… _punishment_. From the Dark Lord.’

Hermione swallowed. Her mouth was dry. The sweat had cooled, and her muscles were seizing up. She felt herself starting to shake. ‘Malfoy, I – I didn’t know.’

‘You couldn’t. No one did except my mother and father.’

‘You were so ill in sixth year,’ she remembered. His sallow skin, the shadows under his eyes. ‘Last year, too.’

‘Recovering from fever. Fighting off changes.’

She stared at him. ‘But – you’re not…?’

‘No,’ he said. He pulled his shirt back on, yanking the buttons through the loops with harsh movements. Even covered, she saw the scars when she blinked. ‘It never took.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Lucky me.’

When his coat was back on, and his collar was smoothed, he looked like Draco Malfoy again. Austere and composed and rich.  

‘Really, I should be grateful,’ he said, adjusting the buttons at his wrist. ‘At least I was a little too old for him. Most of the time.’

Hermione felt sick. Her nails were digging into the stone bench and they were probably bleeding.

‘I didn’t know,’ she said again, swallowing back the nausea, feeling it choking her. Her vision was splotchy. She thought about the cells in the manor. She’d been in them for seconds. How long had he been in them? Greyback leaning over him, rancid breath and other peoples’ blood between his teeth. How long had he been there, while Voldemort made his parents stare at him – only at him, his red eyes, in the dining room, above, listening to their son screaming, making them stand and not _move_? Had he screamed, like she had? Or had he turned his head and shut himself off, closed himself down, like she knew he could? She wondered where he went sometimes, and knew now that is must have been somewhere stronger and more real than any place he had to go to just to evade her.

He said, ‘Are you happy now?’

‘ _Happy_?’ she breathed. She shook her head, mouth trying to form words. It took so long. ‘How could I ever be happy about this, Malfoy? This – this is _horrific_. You were a _child_.’

‘No, Granger. I wasn’t. I’ve done far worse than what Greyback has done to me. So you can’t just pardon me for one thing and accuse me of another. That’s not how justice works.’

‘What did you do?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘What have you done that’s worse?’

His eyes narrowed. He pulled the letter out of her hand – she’d forgotten she was still holding it – and shoved it in the pocket of his coat. ‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Why did you bring it up, then?’

‘Just because someone mentions something, it doesn’t make you entitled to the full story.’

She could feel a headache forming, a dull throb between her eyes that was making its way through her skull.

‘You should eat,’ he said. It sounded like a dismissal. ‘Get something to drink.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve dehydrated and cold and you’ve got low sugar levels in your blood. When was the last time you ate – or exercised?’

And like that they were finished, water smothering a fire. Always, always too fast. And she was left in the aftermath, trying to figure it out, never even given the time to breathe.

‘You’re not my doctor.’

He shrugged her question off and headed towards the staircase. ‘I’m going to get lunch. Are you coming or not?’

Malfoy started walking down the wooden staircase before he waited for a response.

Hermione glanced around her. The Owlery was cold, it shook from the cold, and, frankly, it never stopped stinking of bird shit.

She followed him down the stairs in silence, head pounding, and not from the run.


	16. Chapter 16

Hermione spent the first day of her placement convinced that it was not hers. She wore a suit that felt loose and shapeless and too fitted at the same time, and she was conscious of every conversation, every time she heard her name. She felt like she was standing on a stage, a performer.

Kingsley’s smile was wary when she turned up in his office, and Percy’s affable look was taught and painted on. He clasped his hands, one over the other, like he was posing for a family portrait, too tightly.

‘How are you, Miss Granger?’ Kingsley asked.

‘Malfoy put me forward for this,’ she told him. ‘I know. You don’t have to pretend another position just happened to open up like you did in your letter.’

His eyebrows rose as he sat down in his chair. He seemed to have aged ten years since she saw him last. His skin was wrinkled, his hair greying. His robes were dark and so much less vibrant than she’d always known them to be. _He_ was so much less vibrant. He’d faded. And it was his greyness that made her set her jaw, and grind her teeth. That made something flare up inside her and remind her why she was here.

Malfoy had been awake when she got ready that morning, packing her bag in the common room where she kept most of her things scattered about.

‘Good luck,’ he’d said to her.

She hadn’t thanked him, but looking at Kingsley and Percy, their faces haggard and worn and too old for men so young, she wished she had.

She passed Kingsley a folder. ‘I’ve written a report for you. This is what I expect from this placement, what I hope to achieve, and what skills I hope either to gain or to develop. It shouldn’t be too hard to accommodate given the… _fruitful_ environment.’

He glanced over it. ‘I didn’t realise you had such an interest in economics, Hermione.’

‘I have an interest in investing my skills where they’re most needed, Minis – sorry, _Kingsley_.’

Percy cleared his throat, stepping forward from the corner of the office. ‘Hermione, I’m not sure that’s best for you there. You need to experience a range of different opportunities here.’

‘Then where best to learn but in a crisis, albeit an economic one?’ Hermione asked. She threw him a smile. ‘I might get into all sorts of situations that not even _you_ could plan, Percy.’

Kingsley’s look was amused as his gaze flickered between them.

‘We’d appreciate your help no matter where you are,’ Kingsley said. She didn’t miss the glance he passed to Percy. It was not a warning, but it was definitely saying _something._ ‘No doubt you might shed some light on some things that even we might have missed.’

Malfoy’s words rang clear in her head.

 _They_ trust _you. You can get yourself places that I can’t._

 

* * *

 

 

‘Well?’ Malfoy said. He shot to his feet as she stumbled out of the fireplace. Dust clogged her throat, embers in her hair and coating her skin.

‘Do I get a glass of water?’ she coughed, leaning on the arm of the sofa.

Malfoy passed her a cup.

‘What is it?’

‘Firewhiskey,’ he said.

She drank heavily, then spat the contents into the flames until they stopped sparking.

‘I told you,’ he sighed.

Hermione sputtered, and wiped the back of her mouth with her sleeve. ‘I thought you were _joking_!’

‘I never joke about whiskey.’

She glared at him; his expression was still expectant. Waiting for her.

‘I need a shower first.’

‘Granger, come _on_.’

‘You’ve probably been sitting here three hours,’ she said. ‘You can wait a little longer.’

She made him wait as long as she could, shampooing her hair twice, sipping at a litre of cold water. She dried her hair with a wand, and it took her twenty minutes to pull a brush through the knots with a de-tangling spell.

Her back ached from standing all day, and her stomach felt cavernous. She saw spots as she stood in the shower, the steam making her head spin.

Kingsley didn’t tell her about the funds. She waited for him, pausing every time his words trailed off – every time he looked at her too long. She waited when Percy glanced at her from the corner of the room, always lurking in the corner of the room, and she waited when she was given reports of which to create analyses and there were _pages_ missing and they all knew it and they just kept looking and didn’t say anything.

She told Malfoy this, hair in a bun, wearing striped pyjamas and a dressing gown and nursing a cup of hot lemon water as they sat in their seats in front of the fire. Her throat was still sore. She _hated_ travelling by floo.

His face was thoughtful. ‘It’s not that they don’t trust you, Granger,’ he said. ‘But it’s your first day, and you’re not a member of the Ministry.’

‘You were there almost five months,’ she reminded him. ‘I don’t have five months left here.’

His smile was weak and not a smile. ‘But that was me,’ he said. ‘And this is you. I give it two weeks.’ He ate a bite of the sandwich he’d requested from the kitchens while she’d cleaned up. He gave her the other half. ‘I haven’t poisoned it, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘You were thinking it. Your face is like an open book. And it’s cheese and tomato, by the way. You can stop dissecting it.’

Hermione stopped dissecting it. It tasted delicious. Enough pepper to make her gums tingle. Tomatoes that burst sweetly on her tongue.

‘Penelope seemed pleasant,’ she said, chewing.

‘You met her?’ he asked.

‘She’s there seven days a week. Twelve hours a day. She _barely_ gets a break. Would I mind _terribly_ if she went to the bathroom and manned the desk for her? For _two. Hours_.’

Malfoy’s grin was wide, and his eyes flickered in the firelight.

‘She’s not the strongest wand in Olivander’s,’ he said.

‘Next time I’ll get up and leave. I’d like to see her simpering to Kingsley then.’

 ‘I wouldn’t. She’s an idiot, but you’ll need her.’

‘And why is that, may I ask?’

He opened his arms wide, like he was about to impart some great secret. ‘Precisely _because_ she’s an idiot,’ he said. ‘You can take advantage of that. She knows everything about everything that goes on with Kingsley’s office – who he meets with, what they discuss, what he’ll eat for lunch for Merlin’s sake. And she’ll give that information to anyone who expresses even the slightest interest – mostly in her.’

Hermione paused, mind whirring. ‘Even a _girl_?’ she asked.

‘ _Especially_ a girl, from what I’ve heard.’ Malfoy raised an eyebrow. ‘Will that be an issue?’

‘I do what I have to, Malfoy,’ she said evenly, because he was testing her. _How far will you go?_ he was saying. ‘It wouldn’t exactly pain me, anyway.’

She ate the rest of her sandwich, and swallowed it down with her cup of water. She caught his gaze over the rim of it.

‘I like the whole thing where you walked in and shoved yourself into the Treasury, by the way,’ he said breezily. ‘That was a nice touch.’

She shrugged, brushing the crumbs from her lap. ‘I just wanted to make it clear that they couldn’t say no.’

‘Remind me not to get on your bad side.’

‘Haven’t you always been there?’

‘And it’s been _endlessly_ entertaining,’ he said.

Hermione laughed quietly, and nestled herself further into the sofa. The fire crackled softly, and rain beat against the window panes. Malfoy reached for a book from the coffee table, and she listened to the sound of the pages turning, soft paper on paper, and her eyelashes fluttered closed. She felt weightless and weighted.

‘Go to bed if you’re tired.’

Hermione cracked an eye open. ‘I’m comfortable here.’

‘You snore.’

‘I do _not_.’

She caught movement out the corner of her eye, and felt something fall on top of her – hard. After a moment of disorientation and disentangling herself from the blanket, a beige woollen throw that usually draped over the back of the armchair, Hermione looked at him more fully.

‘I would thank you if your methods didn’t leave much to be desired,’ she said. She tucked the throw around her limbs, until she was covered up to her chin.

‘Isn’t that your motto for everything?’

She huffed a laugh. ‘What are you reading?’

He looked at the cover. ‘Something about fairies,’ he said. ‘Lots of drawings. It’s not the most advanced novel I’ve ever read.’

‘I like fairies,’ she said. ‘We had a tree at the end of the garden with a big hole in the trunk. I used to put my teeth that had fallen out when I was little, and the next morning there’s be a letter from them and money for my teeth.’

‘I’m pretty sure fairies don’t do that, Granger,’ he said, heavy with scepticism.

‘They don’t,’ she said. She wondered how parents could develop a child’s imagination when they lived in a world of magic. Maybe they read them story books about science and the stars and trips to the moon. ‘It was my mum and dad. Only I didn’t know that until I saw _real_ fairies.’

‘The real fae people must have been quite different to the creatures you’d had in your mind.’

‘In personality more than aesthetics,’ she said. ‘Though they weren’t as different as the merpeople are to the Muggle imagination.’

‘What did your parents think?’ he asked. His look was unfathomable. ‘When you…’

‘Came out of the magical closet?’ she mused. ‘Not much. I was a very… _precocious_ child. To say the least. It just meant that it was directed in a different way. I was sitting in a Charms class rather than English Literature. That’s all.’

‘They weren’t scared?’

‘Of me?’

‘Of magic,’ he corrected. ‘Muggles react with violence towards that which they don’t understand.’

She bit her tongue at the irony of his words. She pulled herself up into a sitting position. ‘They were concerned. And confused. But Dumbledore spoke with my parents, and that was enough. They just – they wanted to know that I was _safe_. That was enough.’

‘Did they know about the war?’

She let her eyes wander over his face, every plane and sharp angle of it. ‘You’re awfully interested in my parents, Malfoy.’

He shrugged – and he looked away. ‘You know about mine.’

‘I didn’t realise this was some sort of reciprocal trade of information we’d set up.’

‘Did they know about the war?’ he repeated. He wasn’t pushing. She could have refused to answer if she’d wanted. And maybe that was precisely _why_ she answered him.

‘They knew something was wrong. I told them there were tensions.’

‘And they let you come back here?’ he asked.

‘They didn’t know the full scale of what had been happening at the Ministry. And they wouldn’t have been able to stop me.’

He smiled dryly, knowingly.  ‘Of course they wouldn’t.’

‘I don’t really want to talk about them anymore,’ she said, lying back down.

There was silence for a moment, and it went on. Maybe it was his way of saying ‘okay’, of acknowledging her request, but it was heavy and loaded, and Hermione thought it might have meant ‘sorry’.

 

* * *

 

 

She saw Harry and Ron again for Ron’s twentieth birthday. Their communication had been limited to letters and Ministry memos and a five-minute catch-up over the fire. She had been tired as their faces hovered in the green light, soot still dusting her skin – she’d walked out of that fireplace only minutes earlier.

She tried to see them at the Ministry, but their breaks never coincided, and not even Harry Potter was exempt from duty to ‘pop upstairs’.

Ron rented a room in the Hogshead, filled it with food and Firewhiskey and blasted music that shook the walls. It was like the Room of Requirement – huge, like a ballroom, banners streaming from them, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, glittering like stars. Streamers spilled around the rooms, bearing the colours of the Chudley Cannons’, and a cake the size of one of Fluffy’s heads filled an entire table.

It was ridiculous, and hilarious, and looking around the place was like looking at Ron himself.

He was solid and real when she hugged him, hard muscle stacked on his lanky frame from training, and his smile was as bright as she’d ever seen it.

People jostled them, some she recognized, most she didn’t – students and Aurors and Ministry workers and family – and the music thrummed through her ears until she had to shout to be heard and to hear herself.

‘I got you something,’ she said to him, pulling him towards the door and away from the speakers. She handed him a small package. It was meticulously wrapped. It had taken her hours, sitting cross-legged on her bed. She’d gone through a roll of tape, and almost two of wrapping paper. But her wand had lain untouched on her bedside.

‘You shouldn’t have,’ Ron said.

‘Yes, I should.’

He grinned. ‘Yeah, you should.’ He ran his fingers over the paper. ‘Can I open it?’

She shrugged. It wasn’t as nonchalant as she hoped it would be; he was already picking at the string around the present.

His hands were clumsy, and she watched with slight irritation. It was familiar, though, and endearingly _him_. She would have snatched it from his grasp by now, and undone the string within seconds, but this was their moment.

The string fell away, and at last it was undone. The brown paper fell to the floor.

Ron’s brow furrowed. ‘What is it?’ he said.

‘It’s – it’s a wand holster, Ronald,’ she said, taking the leather garment from his hands. ‘See? You put your wand here. You can wear it around your arm or your leg. I got your initials embroidered in it.’ She handed it back to him. ‘It’s useful for an Auror.’

His smile was slow. ‘Thank you, Hermione. Really. I love it.’

‘You do?’

He knocked his shoulder against hers. ‘’Course I do,’ he told her. ‘You know I love anything you give me. Always thoughtful – and useful.’

_Of course Granger would be pragmatic with love._

Her smile tightened, and her eyes lowered at the corners. But he was already looking beyond her, somewhere over her head.

‘D’you mind, Hermione? I need to say hello to some people.’

‘Of course,’ she said. But he was already past her. Lost somewhere in the crowds of people.

She glanced at the table beside her. He’d left the holster there. The wrapping paper was on the floor. Hermione reached for a glass of amber, and the liquid burned her throat.

 

* * *

 

 

‘ _Hermione_?’

‘Harry! Hi! Come and dance with me!’

‘What— Are you _feeling_ all right?’

‘Spectacular!’ She jabbed him in the chest. ‘But you’re all _blurry_.’ She looked down and saw his fingers around her arm before she felt the pressure.

‘Come and sit down, Hermione,’ he said. His words didn’t move with his mouth – like they were disconnected from each other. It made her laugh.

She went with him, though, stumbling over her feet, faltering into a chair. A cold glass was pressed into her hand.

‘Drink,’ he said.

Hermione let out a whoosh of breath. ‘You’re so _pushy_ , Malfoy,’ she said. ‘ _Do this, do that._ Go to the Ministry and be a _hero._ ’ Hermione felt the glass fall from her fingertips. It didn’t smash, but she watched it roll across a sticky floor full of burst balloons and glitter. The glass reflected the light from the room as it spun like a disco ball, and she felt like she was ten again, having a birthday party at the village hall. She’d set the piñata on fire, and the room had smelled of burned paper and caramel from the melted toffee.

But this time she was nineteen, and her parents weren’t standing off to the side ready to flash her a smile every time she looked their way, and the Ribena cartons were whiskey, and her head was spinning and not because she’d been running around too long and away from the boys that pulled on her hair.

Pupils were blown, and skin was sticky with sweat and something else, and the music was bone deep and the lights were dark enough that you could barely see the wicked curve of a smile.

‘Time to go home, Hermione,’ Harry said. He crouched down in front of her, hands on her knee caps. ‘It’s getting a bit… _heavy_ here.’

Hermione nodded, and her feet were aching, and her back was slumped, and something was wearing off. The magic of the night, slowly, was fading.

Really she just felt sick, and tired, and far too drunk, and she needed to go to the bathroom, and she hadn’t seen Luna and Neville for _three hours_ and she missed her sofa and her fireplace and she missed _him_.

‘Hermione?’ Harry said. He shook her. ‘Come on, you’re talking nonsense. I’ll Apparate you back, okay?’

He put an arm around her and pulled her to her feet. The movement made her giddy and like she was about to throw up.

And when they Apparated back to her common room and the fire was lit and she saw silver eyes she _did_ throw up.

 ‘I didn’t think I looked that bad,’ he murmured, and it must have been funny because even _Harry_ laughed, but she was on the sofa and she’d been made to drink another glass of water and the cushions were so soft – and so she fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

‘I don’t get it. She’s never been a big drinker.’

‘When she drinks she drinks to get drunk, Potter.’

‘I’m worried about her.’

‘If I’m the one you’re telling, then there must be something _very_ wrong.’

‘She mentions you a lot. And – and not in a bad way, Malfoy. You see her every day.’

‘I’m not fucking responsible for her, Potter. No one is.’

‘Responsibility is _not_ the same as care or concern.’

‘Merlin, Potter. What exactly is it that you want from me?’

‘Nothing. I don’t want anything from you, Malfoy. I just – I hope you’ll do the right thing. Whatever that is.’

‘Bloody hell you’re dramatic. No wonder she’s in this constant state of fear – you and Weasley have basically made her expectant of death at every fucking step.’

‘ _Watch_ it, Malfoy.’

‘Or what? You’ll use your big bad Auror powers?’

‘And I don’t think I’d be called out if I _did_ , Malfoy.’

‘Stop it.’

They looked at her.

‘Hermione?’ Harry said. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again he was at her side, hand on hers, and there weren’t three of him.

‘I feel so ill.’

‘I’m not bloody surprised,’ said Malfoy, standing away from them. His eyes shone with amusement. ‘Your breath smells like you drank a litre of Firewhiskey. 

‘I think she did,’ Harry said. He handed her a glass.

‘This smells rancid,’ she groaned. It was thick and green and looked like it would get stuck in her throat. She pressed it to her lips with a trembling hand.

By some feat it tasted worse than it smelled, and she tried to stop herself gagging as she drank it.

But within moments her head felt clearer and less like cotton wool, and her eyes were sharper and her tongue didn’t feel quite so much like lead when she tried to speak. It did not chase away the feeling of exhaustion. When she looked at the clock on the fire mantle she saw that it was three a.m.

‘Where’s Ron?’ she said.

Harry and Malfoy exchanged a glance. It was bizarre enough that she wondered if she was still drunk.

‘Still at the party,’ Harry told her.

‘You should have stayed,’ she said, but he was already shaking his head.

‘Everyone was a bit too drunk,’ he said. ‘There were drugs – other things going on there. I couldn’t be seen with that, not when I don’t know half the people in there.’

Malfoy rolled his eyes. ‘Grow a pair, Potter.’

‘I’d be kicked out of training, _Malfoy_ ,’ Harry ground out. ‘I’m not going to risk my career because of that.’

Malfoy laughed dryly. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘You won’t end up like _me_.’

Harry stood and faced him. His smile touched on cruel, and it edged into his voice. ‘And thank God for that.’

‘ _Enough_ ,’ Hermione said sharply. She couldn’t ever imagine a time when the two of them could stand in the same room. But she’d always thought the same about herself, and Harry had been the one that saved Malfoy’s life. Twice. ‘You’re giving me a headache.’

‘Granger, I don’t think that’s from _us_.’

‘I drank alcohol, Malfoy. I feel like shit. Please stop making me feel worse.’

He made an obscene gesture with his hand. She chose to ignore it.

‘Are you going back to London, Harry?’

He sat beside her on the sofa. ‘Not sure.’

‘You could stay here.’

‘Ginny’s at a tournament.’

‘No, I know. I meant here. You could stay in my room.’

Harry took his glasses off. He started rubbing the lenses with the fabric of his shirt. The action made him look aged, but she supposed that after everything they’d been through, he sort of was. She always thought it so odd that he should choose to be in Auror – that he would willingly fling himself into the path of danger when, for his entire youth, he had been trying to escape from it.

She thought, perhaps hoped, that he might come back to Hogwarts, because she hoped he’d found more solace and comfort in these walls than to think how they had been smeared with Ginny’s blood in second year and burning down last summer, and she hoped that, maybe, he’d stay if not because he wanted warm fireplaces and jumpers and weekend trips to Hogsmeade, but because she was staying, too.

Hermione saw that Malfoy was also watching Harry, and the way his eyes fell on him and stared at the moon-shaped glasses in his hands said that he was thinking it too. That he looked older than he should, that he probably could have chosen to do something didn’t make him look like that. Unlike Malfoy, he had had the freedom to do both everything and nothing. Did Malfoy resent him that? Or was he past blaming Harry for the little ways his life had turned out at last?

‘I don’t know, Hermione,’ Harry finally said, pulling his glass back on his face. They rested on the bridge of his nose a little skewwhiff. ‘I’ve got to be at the Ministry by ten.’

‘So?’ said Hermione.

‘I’ll be in a rush in the morning. I’d rather get a good sleep.’

‘Fucking hell, Potter. Did actually take on the Dark Lord or was it all some sort of elaborate hoax?’

Harry narrowed his eyes at Malfoy. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I’ve never heard someone sound so fucking middle-aged.’ He turned to Hermione. ‘Has he always been like this? I thought you were the only sensible one?’

‘Shut up, Malfoy,’ she said. It was different when he insulted her. That was okay, because she gave as good as she got. But when it was at Harry it didn’t feel right; there was something intangibly dark about it – something that couldn’t be brushed off and shoved back. ‘Why are you even up anyway?’ she said.

He turned nonchalant. ‘I couldn’t sleep. If that’s _all right_ with you, Granger?’

‘Are you always this much of an arse?’ Harry said. ‘Because I’m really struggling to see how you two get on in the slightest possible way. At all. I mean, as much and more than how I struggle with the whole thing anyway.’

Hermione cut in before they could start again. ‘Are you staying or not?’ she said. ‘I’ll transfigure a bed.’

Harry sighed, but in a way that said he’d made his mind up a while back. ‘No. Thanks, though, Hermione.’

‘Okay,’ she said, but really she wanted to tug on his sleeve and tell him ‘no’. She missed the slow mornings, the shared grogginess, the meagre breakfasts in strange coffee shops or out of tin containers in the tent, and the hum of the wireless as the sun rose. Days filled with companionable silence where their feet ached and they never stopped moving but for those small waking hours. It wouldn’t be the same here, like he was performing a charade of being a student and _being here with her_ , but it might be close.

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s fine, Harry,’ she told him. ‘And Ron…?’

‘Is very much _not_ my responsibility. He’ll probably turn up two hours late to training with Merlin knows what down him.’

Malfoy looked mildly disgusted at this, and Hermione couldn’t say that she didn’t share the sentiment. Malfoy’s presence was fleeting, she noticed, like he’d sink into the background in one moment, a statue of silver and ivory that was part of the décor, and come hurtling into the forefront in the next, so present that it felt strange for someone else to see him and speak to him.

It felt like someone was looking in on them, stealing glances into a dollhouse where they lived and spoke and passed judgment on the world, and it was the most bizarre sensation to have Harry, for once, feel like an outsider.

‘I gave him a birthday present,’ Hermione told Harry.

‘The holster?’

‘He told you about it?’

‘No – you did. Remember?’

And the embers died.

It was a strange thing to feel oneself fall out of love. Finally, totally, completely. 

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well I gave it to him when I saw him. It might still be there. I’m not sure.’

Harry’s green eyes were searching, but her face was closed off, and no matter how many times Malfoy had read her like an open book – anger and irritation and the problem of going out of her damned mind around him had torn her barriers down – it was different with Harry. She’d had seven years to practise.

‘I’ll let Madame Rosmerta know. There’ll be a few things lying around the place in the morning, I expect.’

‘Thank you, Harry.’

He gave her a half smile, then headed towards the fireplace. She followed, hugging him, and then the fireplace grew and grew until Harry could step inside it.

‘Safe travels,’ she said, handing him the jar of soot from the mantel piece.

‘See you soon,’ he said. He grabbed a handful, recited his address, and disappeared in a flash of light, a whoosh of hot air, and a spray of dust and ash.

It settled, and silence fell, and the fireplace groaned as it shrunk back to size. The wood flickered innocently in the hearth, but the heat of it could not chase away how cold she felt.

Hermione heard the clearing of a throat, and turned.

She felt herself be slightly startled that he was there, and then vaguely guilty that she’d forgotten.

‘I’m sorry for waking you,’ she told him. She didn’t know why she was apologizing, but she felt like she owed him something – like she had to offer him something.

‘I wasn’t sleeping,’ he said.

Hermione nodded.

They stood there. And stared. She didn’t know how to deal with the overwhelming sense of awkwardness that seemed to be thickening the air she breathed, as if they were both waiting for something to happen, but didn’t yet know what.

It was… _strange_.

‘Well.’

‘I’ll be going.’

‘Quite.’

And suddenly they were reanimated, dolls with life breathed once more into their bodies, and they headed towards their respective corridors with something like nervousness.

But Hermione hesitated as she rested her hand on the door knob, and without turning she knew he had done the same.

‘Good night,’ she told him.

‘Good night,’ he said quickly, like he was agreeing.

And they shut the doors, and Hermione leaned against hers, and her heart felt like a trapped animal inside her rib cage as it beat, air passing too quickly through her lungs. She felt her cheeks flame, and her body tingled, and somehow she knew he was feeling the same.


	17. Chapter 17

‘Miss Granger, that information is classified.’

‘Sure. Okay. But see here? You _gave_ me this report. To analyse. I can’t give you a credible analysis and thus credible _feedback_ if I don’t know what I’m looking for.’

‘You’re looking for anomalies, Miss Granger. And if there are any then we’ll deal with those.’

Hermione gritted her teeth as she stared at the Treasury official. He was a man that might have been handsome in his twenties, but now in his fifties his hair had grown grey and thin, and a pipe had drawn lines around his face and the drink had made him soft. He was used to sitting a desk with a lamp and a quill.

And more importantly, he was used to dealing people that were in no way Hermione Granger.

They’d been at this all day. She, demanding to be given withheld information, he, skirting around the truth – not denying it, no, not denying.

‘Edbert – can I call you Edbert? – in April last year the government had _this_ amount in the treasury.’ She pointed at the figure on the page. ‘Now, I’ve looked at the budget proposed last year, and I’ve factored in the proposed figures following war and Death Eater control that would have effected it, as well as calculating my _own_ estimation based on the actual cost of damage and other losses.’ She jabbed her finger into the report on the table. Hard. ‘This is so far from both of those that it’s not even in the realm of possibility to spend or lose that much in such a short space of time.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Combined with the money that should have been paid in fines for war crimes, largely from wealthy pure-blood families, there should not only have been more money than there _is_ , but there might even have been an increase.’

‘We do not know what the Death Eaters altered and what they destroyed, Miss Granger,’ he said evenly. He did not even glimpse at the report. ‘For all we know, the budget that was proposed before their control began may have been fabricated by outsiders. They infiltrated the Ministry far before any official declaration.’

‘Everything magically altered leaves a trace,’ Hermione countered. ‘Stop treating me like an imbecile.’

‘Miss Granger—’

‘I am starting to get _very_ impatient,’ she said. The thing was, she could have sat there and argued this for days. She knew what he was hiding, but she needed him to tell her. Needed him – and everyone else – to think she’d reached this conclusion by herself. Even without Malfoy she knew she would have picked up something – the reports and the unsettledness of the whole department screamed of _wrong_. ‘I am here until nine o’clock this evening before I return to Scotland. I would like to hear some truth by then.’

She left the documents on his desk. Typically, he said nothing as she walked out of his office.

Ministry workers were loitering outside his door when she closed it, none of them looking at her. The doors were impenetrable to any eavesdropping, but it didn’t stop anyone from trying.

Her office was on the third floor of the Department of the Exchequer, a small room with no windows and too many fake plants. Whoever worked in there last had too much fondness for perfume and liquorice pipes; Hermione was finding small pink dots everywhere and even the wallpaper smelled of something sweet and bottled that was probably called _Tropical Sunrise_.

She sat in her chair and pulled out the cork board she kept attached to the underside of the desk. It was amassed with figures and snippets of newspaper articles and lists of economic reforms and laws and, as Malfoy had suggested, a list of potential causes. Out of personal spite, she’d also written a list of suspects. It was only her third placement day, but she knew it would not take long to narrow it down. Whoever could so easily embezzle such huge amounts of money must have been someone trusted within the department – and by Kingsley himself.

She’s noted Edbert’s name down, but it was tentatively written, and she knew even by listening to him, and watching him, that he had neither the intelligence nor the ambition to do such a thing. This took someone unique. Someone with drive and, if necessary, without inhibition.

Someone like her.

A knock sounded on her door. ‘Miss Granger?’

She looked up as the door opened and the man stepped through.

‘Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself. I’m Alec. I’m the—’

‘Junior Treasurer,’ she said. She slid the board slowly back under the desk as she leaned forward. ‘Please. Sit.’

He sat. He was tall and well-built beneath his suit and wizarding robes, and he moved with such familiar grace and ease. It was like watching Draco Malfoy move in someone else’s body.

‘You already know who I am,’ Alec said, crossing a leg over his knee. ‘I’m flattered.’

The Junior Treasurer was a carefully selected witch or wizard under twenty-five, trained extensively and intensively until they became a deputy to the minister of the treasury. It was rare that they were not appointed exchequer at some point in their career, and Hermione wondered if Kingsley would do the same.

‘I’m sure you know far more about me,’ Hermione replied. ‘Everyone seems to. I think it only fair that I do some research of my own.’

He smiled at her easily.

He has _dimples_ , Hermione thought. But his dark eyes were sharp, and she knew how easy it was to mistake softness for dimness. To mistake a pleasant smile and compelling voice for kindness. 

‘I hope you’ve heard only good things,’ he said.

‘ _Good_ is a very loose term.’

His smile widened, and he glanced at the manila folders on her desk.

‘What are you working on?’ he asked, a note of intrigue in his voice.

‘Finance report analyses,’ she said. ‘With the new budget being released in April, they want to use these in it. Whether or not they’ll use them is another question.’

‘Sounds boring.’

Hermione cast him a bemused look. ‘Isn’t this the sort of thing you spend every day doing?’

‘Which is why I am _entitled_ to give such an opinion.’

She laughed, and she found it was easy to do so.

‘I must say, I prefer you to the pointy bloke,’ he told her.

‘Draco Malfoy?’

‘Was that his name?’ he asked indifferently.

‘He was here for weeks,’ she said. ‘His father is—’

‘Lucius Malfoy,’ he interrupted. ‘Yes, I know.’ Alec leaned over the desk and began pulling her files towards him. His eyes skimmed the figures, and she was a little awed that he seemed to be able to process them as he spoke. It wasn’t a façade of interest – or something to occupy his hands. He could understand them more in a few distracted moments than she could in an hour.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised he quit.’

‘He didn’t – he didn’t quit. He had other commitments.’

His look was sharp, and he could smile at her and run a hand through his dark hair as much as he wanted, but that look held too much in it. It matched the sharpness of his suit and the way his hands flicked through _her_ work. And it made her feel nervous. It was like sitting with Dumbledore – or Snape. You could be thrown by their personality, but underneath there was something – an acuity – that was frightening.

Silence stretched, and he said, ‘I see,’ leaning back in the chair, tidying her papers again. As if he’d not even touched them. ‘I heard you’ve been… asking some questions,’ he said. He phrased it better than she knew he meant to. ‘About some of the documentation you’ve been given?’

She nodded stiffly. ‘Yes. I’ve noticed some errors, and I’ve asked for clarification. On multiple accounts. This has not been given to me. I can’t be expected to give a reliable output if what I’m working with is flawed.’

‘The Minister might be able to help you with that.’

‘Kingsley is busy. And the minister of the treasury will not permit me a meeting on account of _his_ being too busy.’

‘Nonsense,’ Alec said. ‘I’m sure Phillip can speak with you over lunch next week when you’re in. If that would suit you?’

Hermione blinked. ‘I – yes. Yes. Thank you. That would be most useful.’

‘Should I ask Vivian as well?’

‘Philip’s deputy. I’m sure she’d like to meet you. She’s brilliant.’

‘If you… think it’s necessary? I really don’t want to intrude on their time. I know it’s valuable.’

‘Nonsense,’ he said again. ‘I think we all owe you a little of our time.’

She offered him a smile, but his words built on her discomfort. No one owed her anything. She’d just – lived. She’d done what she’d always done. And it happened to help people.

‘You really don’t,’ Hermione told him. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

He stared at her, and she noticed a small scar above his lip. ‘The very fact that you think so says a lot about you, Hermione,’ he said.

Alec broke his gaze and looked at the clock on her desk. It was perhaps the only other piece of furniture in the room, other than a sparse bookshelf and dusty lamp. ‘I should be going. I’ll see you next week, though, and get my assistant to confirm lunch before you leave today.’

‘Thank you, Alec,’ she said, rising to her feet. She held out a hand. ‘I really appreciate your help. I was… starting to feel a bit alone here.’

He took her hand in his, and gave it a firm shake. There was nothing soft about it. She could see him as minister.

‘My pleasure, Hermione,’ he said. ‘If you need any help at all with anything, just send me a memo. I’m usually far too deep in figures and finance reform proposals that I could do with a welcome break.’

He shut the door behind him with a perfunctory click, and she counted to five before sitting back down.

Hermione pulled the board out again from beneath her desk, and found his name on her pinned list of suspects. She reached for a quill.

After an uncertain moment, she put a ring around it.

 

* * *

 

‘His name is Alec,’ Hermione told Malfoy that evening.

‘I wondered how long before you would meet him.’

‘What did you think of him?’

‘You don’t want to know what I think of him.’

‘That bad?’

She saw a muscle jump in his jaw. ‘He seemed to find great amusement in asking if I needed help every five fucking minutes. Because, you know, I must be finding everything so hard nowadays. What with my parents being _absent_. Yes, he fucking used the word absent.’

Hermione sighed. ‘I’ve never seen him before,’ she said.

‘He’s at least twenty-five,’ Malfoy said, looking up from a DADA essay. ‘He would have been in sixth year when we joined. Maybe seventh.’

‘I still would have recognized him.’

‘Granger, you were killing trolls in bathrooms in your first year and finding out what the bloody Philosopher’s Stone was. I _think_ you had other things on your plate than memorizing names and faces of insignificant older students.’

She mumbled her acquiescence. His recollection of what she’d done in her first year at Hogwarts was… a little surprising. Maybe even touching. Maybe.

‘He wasn’t at the battle, either,’ Hermione noted. She wouldn’t forget a face there. Couldn’t allow herself to forget someone who might have saved her life – who might have died for her.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You get pinned on people too easily,’ he said.

‘I’m only trying to eliminate possibilities.’

‘Of course.’

She made a sound of annoyance, and pushed herself up from the sofa. ‘I’m going for a shower.’

When she returned he was reading through his essay, finger following the words.

‘My dad used to do that,’ she said, towel-drying her hair.

Malfoy looked up, startled.

 _He’s far too relaxed_ , she thought. But the thought brought herself up short. She wondered why that was a bad thing. Why, now, anyone should have an aching spine and trembling limbs to keep themselves so still. Why anyone should have to keep looking out the corner of their eye and be watching doors and windows and movement that could mean life or death. Why anyone should be afraid.

‘What?’ he said.

‘My dad. He used to read the British Dental Journal with a gin and tonic. Followed the words with his finger.’

‘It helps me to concentrate,’ he said stiffly.

‘I’m not mocking you, Malfoy,’ she said patiently. She started working at the knots in her hair with a comb as she sat down. ‘I was just making a sort of observation.’

He said nothing. If he had any kind of redeeming quality, she thought it was probably that. That if he had nothing to say, he really did say nothing.

‘He got me a meeting,’ she told him.

‘Who?’

‘Alec.’

‘ _Oh_ , for _god’s_ — You’re _still_ fixed on that?’

‘No, listen. He’s arranged a meeting for me with the exchequer. And his deputy.’

‘Vivian?’

‘You’ve met?’ she asked.

‘No. But I’ve seen her. Her name was passed around a lot. And not surreptitiously.’

Hermione frowned. ‘For a good reason?’

‘She’s ruthless, apparently. Pretty much wiped out the whole of the department and placed her own employees there. She nominated Alec as the junior treasurer.’

Hermione was quiet, wincing as she caught another knot. And then she settled it on her lap. ‘You’d think with someone like that there would be no chance of embezzlement,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You’d be too afraid. Or get caught too easily.’

Malfoy gave her a weighted look. ‘Precisely.’

 

* * *

 

 

‘Welcome to our March EGM, everyone. Thank you for staying for this. I know you’re all busy.’

Hermione looked around the Great Hall at the Head students and House prefects. She’d asked McGonagall if the hall could be used after dinner, and they’d had to wait until all other students left and the plates were cleared before they could begin.

They met often, but probably not often enough, and she thought this might have been only the second time that they all met together. Students were absent will illness and too much work and sport commitments, and Hermione could not begrudge them a thing. She’d asked for a team of prefects that was larger than any the school had seen before, and she realised now that they had needed it. Someone, she thought with some comfort, was always there to cover another one’s back.

Ginny was picking at a bowl of grapes, and the sound of them crunching made Hermione give her a pointed look.

‘I’m hungry,’ she protested, mouth full.

‘You’re always hungry,’ Hermione said. ‘Couldn’t you eat something a little less… loud?’

Padma threw her a bread roll, and Ginny caught it with startlingly fast reflexes. Hermione saw her less and less, and Hermione wondered how she was getting on – how her studies were, how Quidditch was going, though she saw the scores in the papers every week, and how she _was_. She didn’t want to say ‘coping’, because that was redundant. No one ‘coped’ with death; it was so ridiculously passive, and Ginny Weasley was an antithesis to passive. She fought death tooth and nail.

‘Thank you, Padma,’ Theo said wryly. ‘Now, the last time we all met was in February. Olivia, you wanted to know if we had any plans for the post-exam period. We have two weeks left of term after the exams. It’s likely that eighth year students might not stay for those, so we’d have to do something early. Maybe on the weekend.’

‘We asked you all to come up with some ideas,’ Hermione continued, ‘so I suggest we go around in turn and see what thoughts you’ve had.’

‘Isn’t it a bit far away?’ Zacharias Smith asked, expression sour. Hermione knew he’d given no thought to it at all. He was always frustrating in the meetings, and ‘frustrating’ was mild.

‘Like Hermione said, we’ll have exams,’ Theo said steadily. ‘We didn’t come back for another year just to fail our NEWTs.’

‘Oh. Sorry. I thought it was so you didn’t face capital punishment.’

‘ _Get out_ ,’ Hermione snapped. ‘ _Now_.’

The other students looked at her with surprise, but no one defended the Hufflepuff student as he marched from the hall, curses muttered under his breath.

‘If anyone shares any such sentiment I want you to leave,’ Hermione said quietly. No one moved. ‘We are supposed to represent every part of this school, and if we are not united, then how are we supposed to encourage our students to be?’

Luna raised her hand. ‘I had an idea,’ she said, voice whimsical. It slowed Hermione’s heartbeat, made her realise that her wand was out. She put it on the table.

‘Go ahead, Luna,’ Theo said. Hermione sat beside him, and she was so aware that he wouldn’t look at her once. She’s lacked composure, humiliated someone. Her face felt red hot with shame.

‘What about a summer festival the weekend after the exams finish?’ Luna suggested.

Theo looked at her with consideration. ‘Can you expand?’

She tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘Welsh Muggles celebrate something called an Eisteddfod on the first of March. They have singers, and poetry-reading, acting, dancing. That sort of thing.’

‘That doesn’t really represent the school, though,’ Padma said. ‘That’s something that Welsh people do because it’s a part of their culture. It would be like me suggesting a Diwali.’

‘We could twist it,’ Nathaniel said, the seventh year head boy. He was quiet and a little boring, but he was seemed clever and kind and totally inoffensive. ‘Have mock duels, transfiguration or charms competitions. We could hire a band or ask students to sing.’

‘I think that’s a great idea,’ Ginny said.

The house prefects nodded.

Ernie, the Hufflepuff prefect, leaned forward. ‘Wouldn’t it make the End of Year Feast a little redundant?’

‘We could incorporate the two,’ Hermione said. ‘If we had some activities that were House-run, the festival could end in the Great Hall with the Feast as usual. The House Cup winner would be announced as well, only they’d have extra points for winning the festival, too. Maybe each House would have a few stalls where they could sell things, and whoever made the most would win? The money could fund charities that have been made to help those who suffered in the war.’

‘I could sell jewellery,’ Luna suggested. ‘I’ve been making earrings that smell of honey and pollen to help the bee population at Hogwarts.’

Theo tried to hide a grimace. Hermione could see the students all imagining the damage a swarm of bees could inflict on a hazy summer afternoon. ‘We’d have to get the professors to approve who did what,’ Theo said, ‘but that sounds reasonable.’

‘Maybe we could invite the villagers from Hogsmeade to attend?’ Parvati suggested, Gryffindor prefect with another seventh year boy.

‘I think that would be good,’ Justin said. ‘We could ask the bakers and Madame Rosmerta if they’d like to sell or donate food and drink for students to sell. It wouldn’t do them any harm.’

Hermione watched as the conversation unfurled. There had always been so much effort into dividing the houses, pitting them against one another. It was almost surreal to watch them now, to see a Hufflepuff agree with a Ravenclaw without a snide retort – to see a Gryffindor smile at a Slytherin.

 _This is what Hogwarts should have been,_ Hermione thought. Working together. Promoting something that was good. And maybe if it had always been the case, then things would have been different. Maybe a lot wouldn’t have happened in this school if it hadn’t outlined everyone’s differences, put them in categories, showed them their strengths and only their strengths, and only showed their weaknesses to everyone else.

Hermione and Theo stayed behind after the meeting, waving off Luna and Nathaniel’s offers to help. Hermione dictated the notes she’d made, and Theo wrote them out neatly. They’d learnt it was best to do it this way than leave them crumbled in someone’s bag or lost between pages of a book for weeks. They would need to get the proposal sent to McGonagall soon if it was to involve people from Hogsmeade, and to give students enough time to prepare their own individual contributions.

‘What do you think about asking old Hogwarts students?’ he asked. ‘A sort of reunion.’

‘A celebration of the school in its entirety,’ she said, adding the suggestion to her notes. ‘I like it. I think it’s what it needs.’

‘This is going to be something big,’ he said, as if realisation was now dawning on him.

‘If it works.’

‘It’ll work,’ he said. ‘Especially if you’re leading it.’

‘My plans rarely work,’ she admitted. ‘They’re always sort of theoretical.’

‘Modesty is strange on you,’ he said.

Hermione rolled her eyes. ‘Let’s finish this. I’ve got a History of Magic essay to finish.’

When they finished, Theo sat still and looked at her carefully.

‘Thank you, by the way,’ he said. ‘I should have said it straight away. Not many would have spoken up for me like you did.’

She looked away. ‘It’s fine. What he said was horrible. I’m going to speak to McGonagall about it.’

‘There’s no need.’

‘There’s _every_ need,’ she said hotly. ‘Because if he’s saying it to you when there’s twenty people around him who aren’t going to tolerate it, what’s he saying when it’s to one person and they’re alone? You have _no_ idea how that must make someone feel.’

‘You’re right,’ Theo admitted simply. It was too obvious that she wasn’t just talking about people who victimised children associated with Death Eaters. She was talking about anyone that was victimised – for being anything. Because she had _always_ known what it felt like to have that weight pressing down on herself. ‘I don’t. But I’m learning.’

Hermione cleared her throat. ‘When shall we hand this in?’

He glanced at her, like the way she changed a conversation said something about the way thoughts darted about manically in her head. ‘You’re at the Ministry tomorrow, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she sighed.

He rose an eyebrow at her as he began gathering the sheets of parchment together. ‘You sound thrilled. I thought you wanted the placement?’

‘I did. Do. It’s just – become a bit more than I expected.’

‘That isn’t a good thing?

‘It could be. But it’s a little tense there.’

‘Tense?’

Hermione shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t really talk about it.’

‘That’s okay,’ he said. They both stood up from the table and began walking towards the staircases. They rotated with the groan of wood and thud of stone on stone, until eventually they led the way to the eighth year common room. ‘You know,’ he said as he walked beside her. ‘If you do ever want to talk about it in vague, abstract terms, then I’m sure that would be fine.’

Hermione grinned. ‘Thanks, Theo.’

He shrugged. ‘Just don’t get too worked out over it. It’s supposed to be a one-day thing that you cut yourself off from for the rest of the week. I don’t think Draco meant for you to drive yourself insane with it when he told the Minister to appoint you.’

She looked at him with incredulity. ‘He _told_ you?’

‘It seemed obvious what had happened,’ he said. ‘Blaise hasn’t caught on yet, but he wouldn’t imagine it in his realm of possibility.’

‘That Malfoy could be a decent human being?’ she mused.

‘That Draco could be a decent human being to _you_.’

Their voices were low now. The lamps were slowly going out, and the figures in their paintings were settling in to sleep. Hermione’s footsteps felt heavy, and her eyes were growing tired in the fading lamplight.

‘I… don’t think I hate him so much anymore,’ she told him quietly.

It felt like a confession, like a secret – dark and furtive and only suited to the night, and she’d never been able to form the words on her tongue. Never thought Theo would be the one she’d tell them to.

‘I think he might like you,’ Theo replied.

‘Now _that_ I doubt.’

He glanced at her. ‘I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it. Sometimes I doubt he even likes me.’

‘That’s ridiculous. You’re his closest friend.’

‘And?’

Hermione just shook her head. They were at the portrait now, a painting of the four animals. The badger chased the lion, and the eagle spoke with the snake. Sometimes they interacted differently, moving with the fluidness of a painter’s brush. It was a strange image, one she found herself watching for too long every time she entered.

‘Hogwarts,’ she said, and the painting opened inwards.


	18. Chapter 18

 Hermione had forgotten that when Alec referred to ‘lunch’, he literally meant it. But by ‘lunch’, he seemed to have referred to a ‘banquet’. Even the feasts at Hogwarts did not compare to the food that was served: whole lobsters as red as wrath, rabbit and deer gamey enough to taste the fear in its skin. There were pastries and macaroons coloured like the rainbow from Paris, baklava from Lebanon, Japanese gyoza and bowls of ramen, and dishes of aloo gobi and daal and sabzi curry from every region of India. Hermione looked at it, at the dainty finger sandwiches and scones with clotted cream and jam, at the bowls of jasmine rice and stir-fried vegetables with chilies and Szechuan peppercorns, and she could see only the newspaper headlines of food tickets and discussion of rationing. Taxes had rocketed in the past few weeks, and even food staples were reaching extortionate prices. It must have cost a small fortune to prepare, and Hermione how much of it would go to waste.

The room itself was muted in contrast, windows that weren’t real, wooden floor boards that didn’t gleam, a plain wooden table and magnolia-coloured walls.

‘Miss Granger,’ Vivian said, shaking her hand. She was a severe-looking Eastern Asian woman, black hair cut short, revealing sharp cheekbones and even sharper eyes. Her suit was pressed and Hermione could see her reflection in the woman’s heels. ‘A pleasure. At last.’

‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Hermione said. ‘There’s a lot I’d like to discuss with you and the exchequer when he arrives.’

Vivian nodded. ‘Indeed. But let’s eat first,’ she said. ‘Would you like a glass of wine? I managed to find a bottle of Krug Private Cuvee when I was last in Switzerland. It’s a 1960 bottle.’

‘No, thank you. I don’t really drink,’ she said. _Except when I do._

‘That’s a shame,’ Vivian said, pouring herself a glass. The way the words rolled off her tongue made Hermione feel so disappointed in herself, so small. It was as if the woman had used the Imperius Curse on her.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Not at all,’ she said dismissively. ‘I wouldn’t want you to drink something you didn’t enjoy. I do hope you’re hungry, though.’

And Hermione thanked Merlin that she was.

Alec and the exchequer arrived shortly after Vivian and Hermione had exchanged pleasantries and filled their plates and sat down. Neither man seemed shocked or awed by the mountain of food that had been served and threatened to fall off the table – or crush it.

‘Good to see you again, Hermione,’ Alec said, looking up to smile at her as he poured a glass of wine, like he really meant it.

The exchequer nodded at her. He was pleasant enough, but he looked haggard and like the last place he wanted to be was there. He filled a tumbler full with whiskey and chewed only on a plateful of cheese and cured hams and crusty bread; it smelled hot and fresh and reminded her of the bakeries she and her parents used to go to for breakfast in Normandy every summer.

‘Let’s hear it then,’ he said.

Hermione blinked at him. ‘Pardon me?’

‘State what it is that you need, Hermione,’ Vivan said. ‘Be precise.’

Hermione cleared her throat.

‘I see,’ she said. She pulled a folded piece of paper from her chest pocket and opened it up. Vivian held her glass close to her mouth as she waited for Hermione to speak.

‘Mostly what I want is the truth,’ Hermione told them. ‘I know that information is being withheld from me. Of the five data reports I’ve been given, there are pages missing from all of them. I want to see the Spending Review from this year. I know the budget’s going out next week, and so my deadline is this evening, but I’m missing a _lot_ of information to make a credible analysis if you’re even entertaining the notion of including them in the budget.’

Alec looked at Vivian, and she looked at the exchequer. The man sighed.

‘This is not my remit anymore,’ he said wearily. ‘The minister needs to answer to this, because Merlin knows you’ll find it out anyway if he doesn’t.’

‘Would you like me to send him a memo?’ Alec said.

‘There will be no need,’ a voice said. They all faced the door, and Kingsley wandered towards them with his quiet, easy smile. It was tired at the edges, just as she’d seen it grow these past few weeks, and his cheeks looked a little sunken, his robes too loose.

‘Kingsley,’ Hermione said. They all stood, but the Minister waved a hand.

‘Sit,’ he said. ‘This won’t take long.’

His secretary, Penelope, sat down beside him, and handed him a stack of sheets. Kingsley leaned across the table and handed them to Hermione, holding his robes to stop them from falling into the small gravy boats.

When he sat back down, he gave Hermione a steady look.

‘Someone’s embezzling funds from the Ministry, Hermione,’ he said.

The words just sounded like words, even with Kingsley’s enigmatic voice. Hermione tried to force her expression into a mix of shock, and surprise, but she knew she’d failed when she looked at Kingsley.

He sighed. ‘You knew,’ he said, in a voice that really said, ‘Of course you did.’

Hermione grimaced.

‘ _What_? How on earth does she—’

‘It doesn’t take a genius, Philip,’ Vivian said dismissively to the exchequer. ‘And it wouldn’t take someone like Miss Granger very long at all.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Hermione said. ‘I had guessed. But I needed you to confirm it. I know quite well what rumour and supposition does – especially here.’

She looked around, and for a moment Alec looked less composed, and Vivian looked less austere. She saw the curling edges of them as if they were a painting: the lines at the edges of mouths and eyes; the full, untouched plates; the empty bottle and emptier faces. They were fatigued.

‘We’ve been working with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,’ Kingsley told her. ‘They know about as much as we do at the moment.’

Hermione opened the folder of papers he’d given her. They had been titled ‘Ministry of Magic Spending Review: 1999’.

She glanced up at them.

‘Half the unauthorized expenses are miscellaneous,’ Vivian said. She rapped her fingers against the surface of the table. Hermione noted that the nails were bitten down to the skin, like little parts of her were cracking. ‘We don’t know who’s filing the claims or how they’ve manage to counter our charms against unauthorized expenses being made.’

‘The money that’s being taken is being _documented_?’ Hermione asked in disbelief.

‘The money that we know is directly missing, yes. It seems that’s the only way to get around it without alerting us. Less than one percent of the government’s funds are in physical cash, so the money that’s being stolen directly from the Ministry’s vaults in Gringotts – _physical_ money… We have no idea how much that amounts to. It could be thousands.’

‘Or millions,’ Alec finished.

‘These all have signatures,’ Hermione said, looking down the list. There must have been thousands of individual expense claims. ‘Whose signature is being used for the false expenses?’

There was a moment of silence.

Kingsley sighed again; it told her everything. ‘Mine. They’d have to use my magical signature to bypass our wards as well as my written. One is, quite obviously, a bit harder to copy than the other.’

‘Which is impossible,’ the exchequer said. He said it like it was an old phrase, used again and again until the argument ran dry.

‘ _Absurd_ , but not impossible,’ Alec said, his teeth gritted. ‘It’s… dark magic.’

Vivian held up a hand. ‘I’m _not_ having this conversation again with you all. It ages me every time.’

Hermione saw Penelope stifle a laugh at this. The woman tucked her hair behind an ear, and Hermione caught the look she gave Alec. He did not return it.

‘So,’ Hermione said, shifting in her seat. She moved a spoon through her onion soup. ‘What I’ve been doing so far…?’

‘I’m sorry, Hermione,’ Kingsley said. ‘But we won’t be using it.’

Vivian clicked her tongue. ‘And we’ve all wasted her time. Ridiculous.’

‘At this point the budget’s not even going to go out,’ Phillip muttered. ‘I don’t think wasting the time of a placement student—’

‘Well of course it’s not going out,’ Alec interrupted. ‘What the hell would we say?’

‘Alec,’ Vivian warned.

‘Seriously, Vivian,’ he said. ‘What _are_ you all going to say?’

 

* * *

 

‘ _Budget inconclusive_ ,’ Neville read over breakfast on the first of April. ‘How can a budget be bloody _inconclusive_?’

They all held the copy of the _Prophet_ in their hands. They all stared at the headline and read the article with fleeting, dubious looks at one another.

Hermione reached absently for her orange juice as her eyes skimmed the report.

 

> Philip Newman, Exchequer at the Ministry of Magic, this morning released his statement over the wireless at 06:00AM. Please find below the transcript for the statement:
> 
> ‘The budget is, regrettably, inconclusive. We are still attempting to draw conclusions on the Ministry’s expenses last year that were documented whilst it was infiltrated by the followers of the now-defeated Lord Voldemort. We are in an economic decline as a result of the war, and thus the Minister of Magic will be releasing a number of economic reforms over the coming days to respond to this situation. The damage that has been inflicted upon the Wizarding Community and also what was spent from the Treasury by Lord Voldemort is as yet inconclusive, and thus we cannot make a credible estimate as to what figure our current debts amounts to – if indeed there are any. Incidentally, we cannot create a budget if we do not yet know how much money is needed to be recovered, and thus what parts of the government may need to have cuts introduced, or taxes implemented.
> 
> ‘We apologise deeply for this error of judgment. We have only recently come to realise that the damage inflicted by Lord Voldemort and his followers lies much deeper than initially thought within the Ministry of Magic. We are working as quickly as possible to create a substantial and trustworthy figure for the government debt, and we hope to reach this as soon as possible.
> 
> ‘As previously stated, the Minister’s reforms will be introduced as soon as possible with the intention to alleviate the current economic constraints laid upon the public. We will be working as hard as possible over the next few weeks in this department, as well as with the help of Aurors from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and we will not halt until a conclusion has been reached.’
> 
> The Exchequer seemed weary and worn as he released this statement this morning, as did the Deputy of the Exchequer, Vivian Leung, and the Junior Treasurer, Alec De Clare. All were solemn and regretful, dutifully adhering with the Exchequer’s words.
> 
> We accept this statement with understanding, though it may not necessarily be accepted without discontent. Yet again, the Ministry appears to have lacked coherency – has it changed since it was repossessed after the Battle of Hogwarts in May of last year?
> 
> ‘Why was this not released earlier?’ we asked employees entering the Ministry this morning. Many responded with the same question. It seems the Ministry has been keeping secrets – even from its own.
> 
> Can the Exchequer’s words be trusted, after all?
> 
> All we can say for now is that we wait with bated breaths to receive the Minister’s supposed economic reforms. It is about time action should be taken to respond to what Newman has called a ‘situation’, and what we prefer to call a ‘crisis’.

 

‘Bloody hell,’ Neville said again.

‘Poor Kingsley,’ Ginny said. ‘Sounds like it’s falling apart there.’

‘I didn’t realise things were that bad,’ Seamus said.

They looked to Hermione, as if she had an answer for them. And maybe she did, but she’d never be able to tell them.

‘It’s not easy there,’ she said. She caught Malfoy’s eye across the hall, but she couldn’t figure out his look. ‘They’re doing the best they can with what they’ve got.’

And it wasn’t a lie, and had to be good enough for the moment, because it was all she had to give them.

 

* * *

 

Every class Hermione had that morning, the students were muttering and shaking their heads and looking about them as if they were a little lost – as if they’d put their hope in something and it had, again, faltered. Malfoy was always distracted by Pansy or Theo or was sitting too far away for her to speak to him, and she felt tormented trying to catch his eye, or pass a word to him, like she was sneaking about in broad daylight. Except that she was.

Her lessons finished after lunch, and she stalked to the Quidditch pitch to see if he was practicing. The pitch was empty, so she went to the Astronomy Tower, and then the library, and finally the common room. She pulled her jumper over her head and rolled her shirt sleeves up. Her breath was coming fast. She saw Blaise and Daphne sitting around the fire.

‘Have any of you seen Malfoy?’ she asked them.

Daphne stared at her. ‘Are you talking to us?’

Blaise rolled his eyes. ‘We haven’t, Granger. Want us to give him a message for you?’

She did consider the offer, if only for a moment, but indeed it was a moment. Brief and cursory and largely for appearances.

‘Thank you, but no.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ Daphne called to her as she began to leave. Her voice was sweet and her eyes startlingly blue, but it was hard not to forget her laugh that had always been a backdrop to Pansy’s comments.

Hermione offered the girl a tentative smile; Blaise narrowed his eyes at the Slytherin.

‘I appreciate it, Daphne,’ Hermione said. ‘But I just wanted a word with him. I’ll speak with him when I see him next.’

‘That would be tonight, wouldn’t it?’ Daphne asked.

‘Pardon?’

Daphne sat up straight. ‘What _do_ you and Draco talk about every night? I hear you when I leave my room.’

Hermione stared at her. ‘Are you eavesdropping?’

Daphne laughed, and Hermione wondered if she realised how forced it sounded.

 _Does she think I’m judging her?_ Hermione thought. _Because of Pansy? Does she think I’d use it against her like she would against me if our roles were reversed?_

‘Don’t be stupid, Granger,’ she said. ‘I’m not that interested.’

‘But I am,’ Blaise said, looking at Hermione with curiosity. ‘It’s not difficult to reach a conclusion.’ He pointed a finger at her. ‘You’re a Muggleborn, he’s a convicted Death Eater. If he shows his face with you, then he _must_ be converting himself to the _good side_ , no? I just hope, for your sake, Granger, that all you’ve been having is… _conversation_.’

There it was – Daphne’s laugh. Bright and sunny and primitively nasty. It was the laugh that made Hermione’s face flame like a beacon, and pinpricks travel up her skin until every part of her stood on end with the sound.

Blaise could have said anything to her. He could have called her a Mudblood a hundred times; the word had lost its power and so nothing else could really hurt her anymore. But being laughed at was different. It was wordless mockery that you couldn’t counter, grating and inane and piercing.

She wanted to tell them to shut up, to stand and glare at them and hope they felt her anger and maybe the beginnings of hated. But more than that she wanted to wrap her hands around Daphne’s throat until she couldn’t find the air to laugh, and jab her wand against Blaise’s cheek until it dug in deep enough to bleed.

And after a moment a breeze travelled through the room, the fire in the hearth flickering, and there was a sound like thunder booming far off. There were no windows open, and the sky was a deep blue born of flowers blossoming and new bird song and the beginnings of spring.

Daphne’s laugh faded, and they both seemed to sit up straight in their seats, as if they were puppets all pulled by one invisible string.

‘What was that?’ Hermione said quietly. She felt like she was electricity. ‘I didn’t quite catch it.’

Blaise looked away. ‘Nothing.’

Hermione waited, daring them to say something else, but none of them could look at her. It wasn’t guilt or shame that forced their heads down, Hermione knew. It was the way she was imagining their necks pinned in place, held still by a gentle hand.

‘I thought so,’ she said. And then she let go.

They lifted their heads, and when they glanced at her, they looked way quickly.

Hermione left them by the fire, and she felt a smile on her as she heard them mutter in anger and confusion. She was confused too, but right then she didn’t care. They’d stopped laughing.

 

* * *

 

‘What did you do to Blaise?’ Malfoy asked her as he walked into the common room.

She hadn’t left her room until eleven o’clock that night, the fire unlit and the air was chilled. She knelt by the hearth and lit it by herself, scrunching up pages from the abandoned copies of the _Daily Prophet_ around the room to use as kindling. It took an hour of prodding and adding more newspaper and shifting the logs about before she started to feel warm.

Hermione stood from the fireplace and dusted the soot from her white pyjama trousers, glanced at the armchair, thought about taking a step towards it, and then Malfoy walked through the portrait.

Hermione moved swiftly to the sofa. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she told him.

‘That’s a bullshit answer.’

‘It’s an answer,’ Hermione retorted.

‘Whatever,’ Malfoy sighed, collapsing into the arm chair. ‘Probably deserved it, the fucker.’

‘Charming.’

‘I’ve had a bad day.’

‘Ditto.’

Malfoy paused then. He seemed to consider her – really see her in that moment.

‘Tell me about your day,’ he said.

She frowned at him. ‘You’re not interested in my day, Malfoy.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that. Tell me.’

So she sighed. And she told him. About the newspaper report, about how she’d lied to her friends – about Daphne and Blaise and how she’d felt herself falling and the _electricity_. It felt like telling Harry or Ron, a sense of unloading, taking the weights of her ankles and wrists, imparting a secret that she couldn’t trust with anyone else. Did that mean she trusted _him_?

‘He said _what_ to you?’

‘ _That’s_ what you picked up from this?’ Hermione said. ‘What about my magic?’

‘What are you worrying about that for? You got angry – your magic went a little haywire. It happens with emotional outburst.’

‘Not to _me_ , it doesn’t.’

‘Granger,’ he said, steadily. ‘When was the last time you felt any real emotion with any real strength? I’m surprised that was all you did, to be honest.’

‘It’s _dangerous_ ,’ she said. ‘I could have hurt them. I… manipulated them somehow.’

‘So? They deserved it.’ Malfoy’s expression grew dark. ‘Fucking Zabini.’

He wasn’t defending her; wasn’t angry because Blaise had insulted her, like Harry or Ran would have been. He was angry because Blaise had insulted _him_. It didn’t stop her from feeling that small spark of warmth, that feeling like she was being protected, like someone was looking out for, even if they really weren’t.

‘It doesn’t matter about what they deserved – it’s what’s morally and – and legally _right_.'

‘Welcome to the New Age,’ he muttered.

‘Look, let’s just – pretend it didn’t happen, okay?’ she said. ‘What did you think of the article? That’s more important.’

He scratched at his jaw, the sound rough and harsh. He needed a shave. Hermione tried to imagine his reaction if she told him so.

‘I think it was exactly what it was, Granger,’ he said. ‘The best they could do in an awful situation.’

‘Maybe. I just… I don’t think it’s one of them. One of the three.’

‘They’re putting themselves through too much shit for it to be one of them. They might have to resign if they’re not quick enough, and that will cut of their contact with the Ministry. They wouldn’t get anywhere near the accounts.’

‘Exactly. Unless… That’s what they wanted. Someone who has their job at risk wouldn’t be a suspect.’

‘That’s too risky.’

‘It’s worth taking, isn’t it? If it’s one person then they’d be the richest witch or wizard alive.’

‘What?’

‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t—’

Malfoy shook his head. ‘No. What you said. If it’s one person. What if it’s not? What if it’s all three of them?’

They stared at each other. Hermione was both mildly annoyed that it wasn’t her that had come up with it, and mildly shocked that he _had_. Harry might have thought of it, but the ‘might’ was tentative. Ron probably wouldn’t; his bursts of ideas were passing and unreliable at best. She remembered that Malfoy wasn’t Ron, though. Second only to her in his exams, quick and able to chase her thoughts and her mind incessantly. Sometimes he surpassed her.

‘You might be right,’ she admitted.

‘It’s the best idea we’ve come up with,’ he told her.

‘I’ll – we can work with it. Are you staying at Hogwarts next week?’ she asked. Easter fell late this year, and students had a week off. She remembered how she’d spent that week last year. At his house. In that room. Sun streaming in, blond hair and blood in the cracks of the oak flooring.

‘I thought about going to the manor,’ he said. She’d noticed that he didn’t call it home – never called it home. 

‘And?’

‘God knows why, but I’m staying.’

She couldn’t accept that the mix of chemicals in her brain right now – and the way her cheeks threatened to pull themselves up into a smile, and the way her skin tingled, like fingers were brushing across her skin, feather light – was anything close to happiness.

It _wasn’t_.

 

* * *

 

Draco watched her carefully. He saw the slight curve of her mouth. He tried to think of something he’d said that was remotely amusing.

‘I’m staying, too,’ she said.

‘You’re not going to London?’

‘No. I need to study. I was asked to read through the Spending Review. That’ll take me a few days at least.’

‘Have you told Weasley and Potter?’

He wondered if Weasley would care. He saw her face on the night of his birthday, the way it had just fallen, so open, because Weasley had been so goddamned inconsiderate. Obnoxious and intolerable just like the rest of his fucking family.

‘No,’ she said. A flash of guilt passed her face. He saw it in the fold of her shoulders, the wavering of her glance.

‘Are you going to?’

‘They’re not my keepers,’ she snapped. And then she drew herself back, startled by the sound of her voice. ‘Besides, they haven’t asked me. I think they forgot.’

‘Ah.’ _Truth will out_ , he thought. Except for when it didn’t.

‘I don’t think they’re even in London anymore. I expect they’re overseas or elsewhere in the UK. Strange to think they’ve been training for almost nine months already. They’ll be done in three more.’

‘And then they’ll be unleashed into society,’ Draco drawled. ‘Oh, the horror.’

She threw a scrunched up piece of parchment at him. It bounced harmlessly of his knee.

Draco leaned down and picked it off the floor. He unfolded it, smoothing out the crinkles.

The writing was unruly and wild and spilled over the edges of the paper, slanting slowly upwards. Some words were written in capitals, some so small he could hardly read them. Placed around the page like transient thoughts, some shouting, some made only of whispers. It reminded him of her.

‘What is this?’ he asked.

She shrugged, but she wasn’t looking at him. Eyes drawn to the pages of a book sitting in her lap, spine curved gently over it. He didn’t know why he did it, or what he was supposed to do with it after, but his heart was beating fast in chest when he put the paper in the pocket of his trousers, waiting for her to look up and ask what he was doing. She didn’t, but he almost wished he would, to break him out of that strange moment of madness. To make him see sense, which, for some time now, had started slipping away from him.


	19. Chapter 19

It was a Wednesday morning when the news hit them, already half-way through the too-short Easter break. 

The owls dropped the papers with dull thuds, and it was like the silence had its own voice as it grew, as conversations cut short and mouths closed and eyes widened.

 

> DEATH EATER CAMP OF 40 INFILTRATED BY AURORS

 

Hermione stared at the headline. She kept staring. It was insanity – it couldn’t be real. This was something she’d dream, something she’d conjure in a nightmare. They were vivid enough that she could almost believe it for a moment, but it felt too strange. She was too aware of the feel of the paper in her hands, and the breath in her lungs.

Her eyes travelled over the report with furtive glances.

 

> A camp of Death Eaters was infiltrated by a team of Aurors in the early hours of this morning. More than thirty of the dark witches and wizards were found in a remote camp in the Coltswolds. Twenty-three were killed in a battle against the team of twelve Aurors, one of whom was severely injured and later declared dead at St Mungo’s. Another seven Death Eaters have been detained. They are currently being held in Azkaban to await further questioning.
> 
> The Ministry has been sending members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (hereafter DMLE) to areas of the UK since the Battle of Hogwarts on May 1st of last year, in an attempt to arrest all known Death Eaters still at large.
> 
> It was believed that most of the dark witches and wizards had been detained since May, following numerous statements given by Aurors of the DMLE, and so it is with trepidation that the Ministry’s report was filed this morning. Our sources report that at least twenty of the hooded figures were not previously known to be followers of the Dark Lord, and a higher figure may be released as the identities of the Death Eaters are ascertained.
> 
> ‘It’s a new rise in radicalism,’ Head Auror of the DMLE, Angela Wrackhurst, told us this morning. ‘When Voldemort was … [defeated] at Godric’s Hollow, estimated follower numbers diminished dramatically. Strangely, though his death is now undisputed, what we might now be facing here is an increase.’
> 
> Wrackhurst added that there will always be a ‘dark side’ to society, and that she believes there is now a ‘power vacuum’ within that society, a credible reason for the rise in Death Eaters.
> 
> ‘It might not be that they even believe in the racist, blood-oriented beliefs that Voldemort and his followers espoused,’ Wrackhurst told the _Daily Prophet_. ‘It may simply be an opportunity for someone to dominate a vulnerable part of society through an already pre-existing terror group. And now they have a martyr.’
> 
> Alongside the Death Eaters, a number of Muggles were also found to be held as prisoners. A figure has not been released yet, but they will be treated with care at St Mungo’s, before undergoing selective memory erasure and being relocated to a secure environment with their families. One body was also found at the camp, and the identity and cause of death of this person is yet to be confirmed. It is believed that the body is that of a Muggle girl. Arthur Weasley has refused to comment on the situation and what it might mean for Muggles and Muggleborns alike.

 

The hall was silent when she finished reading. Hermione looked across at Malfoy. He was striking in his paleness. He was shaking his head, like the words weren’t really printed in front of him. He stood up from the table, throwing the paper on the floor. No one even saw him leave, eyes glued to their own copies.

‘I don’t understand,’ Ginny was saying. ‘I thought they caught them all? They said they caught them all.’

‘They thought they had,’ Neville said quietly. ‘But they didn’t know. Capture rates were just slowing a lot so they thought…’

Hermione watched as Professor McGonagall walked up the lectern, and heads swung towards her.

‘Students,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘In light of the report we have all read and heard about this morning, I would like to make a brief announcement,’ There was a ruffle of paper as students lay down their newspapers onto the table. ‘Voldemort _is not back_ ,’ she said. ‘The Ministry are strong – hundreds strong, and any threat to them and our society will be thwarted with ease and efficiency. Do not be afraid of what will not be able to hurt you within these walls. We are still in turbulent times, but I earnestly believe that those times have been improving, and will continue to do so, and I ask that you do not lose faith in your community, and in yourselves.’

She lowered her eyes. ‘With this in mind, if any of you feel the need to speak with a member of staff, a prefect, or one of our head students, please do so. We will listen to any concern you have to raise without judgement, and help you through this unwelcome news.’ The headmistress stepped back. ‘Please continue your breakfast, and have a productive day.’

‘I don’t know why she’s worrying,’ Seamus said as the sound in the hall slowly rose. Dean cast him a strange look. ‘It’s not like this means anything. They’ll never get enough followers to hurt anyone.’

‘Someone was _hurt_ , Seamus,’ Dean said, face twisted in distaste. ‘A Muggle was _killed_.’

‘So the Ministry says.’

‘Oh _not_ this again,’ Ginny muttered, throwing her napkin onto her plate. ‘Open your fucking eyes, would you, Seamus? Stop just – illegitimating people’s fears because _you_ can’t face them.’

‘Fuck off, Ginny.’

‘ _Hey_ ,’ Parvati cut in. She pointed a butter knife at him. ‘Don’t talk to her like that.’

‘I can talk—’

Hermione didn’t know who moved, who broke the tenseness, but she’d seen it so many times. A surreptitious reach for a wand. A threat before that would suddenly grow into something bigger.

And suddenly her wand was out, and ‘ _Immobilis_ ’ had already passed her lips, and they sat around the table, frozen.

No one seemed to notice their sudden stillness, or their silence. Every table was distracted by McGonagall’s words, and those printed in front of them. An image of the Dark Mark, hanging in the sky, filled half the page. It made Hermione feel sick just to see it. Like it was happening again. Too soon. She hadn’t even caught her breath back.

She looked at them, at Ginny’s reddening face, at the blunt end of Parvati’s butter knife, at Seamus’ narrowed eyes. At the hand in Dean’s robes. She reached across the table, and put her hand in his pocket. His frozen grip around it was already tight, but she pulled it out, lay it on the table, and released the spell.

‘—however I _want_ , Parvati.’

Parvati was about to retort, but Hermione watched as their faces melded into vague confusion and a collective sense of awkwardness. Like they knew something had happened, something they’d missed, but they didn’t quite know what. The reason was blurred and impossible to put a finger on, to straighten out the edges. Dean starting searching frantically for something in his pocket, and slowly withdrew his hand when he saw the wand lying innocently beside his bowl of cereal.

Ginny looked around. ‘Does anyone else feel kind of…’

‘Odd?’ Dean said.

‘Very,’ Parvati agreed.

Hermione watched this unfurl with a strange sense of authority. With knowledge and power she shouldn’t have had. It was wrong to mess with people like that – and never friends.

But she’d done it anyway, just as she’d petrified Neville in first year, and the guilt was fleeting. She finished her breakfast in silence, and left the hall with curious stares piercing her back.  

 

* * *

 

He was at the Astronomy Tower when she found him. His legs swung over the edge, chest pressed against the iron bars that had never really stopped anyone from falling.

It felt strange to stand where he had fallen, to look down and see the cobbles that somehow looked human-shaped. It was raining, and cold, but there were patches of blue so startling, and the rain glistened like diamonds as it fell, the sun piercing through the clouds. The air smelled so clean, and snow still capped the mountains in the distance.

 He tensed when he heard her footsteps; she saw the way his shoulders grew taught and his hands – arms folded atop one of the bars – curled into fists as she neared.

‘I’m not in the mood for you right now, Granger.’

She stopped, and glared at him. ‘You don’t have to be so rude,’ she snapped. ‘I was coming to see how you were. I see now that’s it was a wasted journey.’

He sighed when she neared the stairs. ‘Wait,’ he called. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. That was rude.’

‘That’s not really how it works, Malfoy,’ Hermione said snidely. ‘You don’t just insult someone and apologise when they get angry with you. It _kind of_ loses the sentiment.’

‘I apologise, Granger. Really. I’ve just had a bit of a shit morning.’

He still didn’t move, or turn his head to look at her. She wondered what he saw when he looked down. What it must feel like to walk up the steps and expect to see _him_ there, a man so nearly dead at the end of your wand, and then suddenly dead at the end of another’s. Harry told them it was like nothing he’d ever seen, to see that spark fade from Dumbledore’s eyes – like his soul had left him, and Hermione was morbidly curious to know if Malfoy had seen it too.

‘I can understand that you’re upset,’ she said.

‘Upset? No, I’m relieved. And upset that I’m relieved.’ He glanced at her. ‘Because – because the only thing I thought when I read that was, well, thank god my parents are in Azkaban and can’t be blamed.’

Hermione rubbed her forehead. ‘I’d probably think that too,’ she said.

‘No, you wouldn’t.’

‘No, I probably wouldn’t,’ she admitted. ‘But if I had your parents and I’d grown up like you had, then maybe I would. Maybe.’

He conceded to that. ‘I don’t really know what this means for me,’ he said. ‘I get enough shit from people already. I’ll have a price on my head by lunch time.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. She sat down beside him, her actions graceless. ‘It’s like you said – your parents are in Azkaban. You have no ties to it.’

‘I let _them_ into Hogwarts on my own, didn’t I? Who’s to say I’m not Apparating to the fucking Cotswold’s every weekend?’

‘Your wand is traced, Malfoy,’ she said bluntly. ‘You’re not going anywhere without the Ministry knowing about it.’

He sighed. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

She shrugged, and said, ‘It’s bloody cold up here.’ She wrapped her arms around herself, huddled in on her own body.

‘Not really,’ Malfoy said, skin touching the iron railings that felt like ice. He looked like the kind of person who would leap over if she dared that he wouldn’t. She imagined him doing it – grinning. A final ‘fuck you’.

Five minutes passed in silence. The air was so still, the clouds moving slowly across the sky. Blue so bright it hurt to look at too long. The students below were cast into spring sunlight. That should have been her, heading to Professor Tenrin’s class, but instead she was here, feet dangling over the edge of the Astronomy Tower.

Malfoy pulled off his blazer and hung it over the railing. Hermione stared at it, hands tucked into her armpits.

‘Are you wearing that?’ she asked.

‘Clearly not.’

‘Would you mind if I borrowed it? I left mine in the common room.’

‘Not really.’

It was still warm from him when she put it on, and for some reason that surprised her. She thought he’d be cold, reptilian. It was too big on her, which is to say that fit like a glove.

‘You’re very quick not to blame me,’ he told her, with a voice like he was making remarks about the weather. ‘I thought you’d still point the finger if you got the chance.’

‘I never thought you’d taken the mark,’ she said. ‘No matter how much Harry insisted. I never thought you’d go that far.’

‘I appreciate the faith you had in me, but it was grossly misplaced.’

‘You’re ridiculously British,’ she told him.

‘What on earth is _that_ supposed to mean?’ he asked, bewildered.

‘You’re just so – so…’ She waved a hand in the air, as if that could convey any sort of meaning in her words. ‘Just sarcastic and cynical all the time. Would it kill you to be, I don’t know, _appreciative_ or _touched_ by someone for once?’

‘Yeah, actually. It _would_.’

Hermione made a disgruntled sound.

‘Idiot,’ she said, not unkindly, the way she might have swatted Harry across his head when he asked for her homework, or rolled her eyes at Ron when he’d make a bad joke. ‘You don’t think this is related to the treasury, do you?’

‘I don’t see how it could be,’ Malfoy replied. ‘Unless the money’s somehow going to the Death Eaters?’

‘That’s what I mean. Vivian highlighted all the expenses on the Spending Review that were legitimate, and trust me, there weren’t many. But some of the ones that aren’t legitimate weren’t only documented under the Miscellaneous category. There were expenses under Defence and R&D ones, too.’

‘Research and Development?’

Hermione nodded.

‘So they’re, what, embezzling to create an army _and_ making a joke out of it?’

‘Villains always like to taunt, don’t they?’ Hermione said. She could hear Bellatrix’s words in her ear, rank breath washing over her face. ‘They play with their food.’

Malfoy considered her words.

‘Except this is someone that’s been too clever so far,’ he said. ‘This is something too big to make jibes – it might get them caught if we looked too much into those particular expenses. Especially if we’re assuming it’s all three of the leading Finance Department members. It’s a big risk with no foreseeable benefit to them.’

‘They could all be a little unhinged,’ she said. ‘It’s possible, if unlikely.’

‘I’ve learned to accept that nothing is unlikely, Granger.’

‘ _See_? There you go with the cynicism!’ she said. She was close enough to nudge him if she’d wanted to, but crossing the boundary of using only words meant crossing something she didn’t want to acknowledge. She cleared her throat, trying to forget the readiness of her bones to move, and she clenched her hand for the way it nearly rested on his shoulder. If she touched him it made him too real, and she was still trying to come to terms with what that meant.

‘By the way,’ she said. ‘You saw you mother last week, didn’t you?’

He wasn’t angry when she said this, just said, ‘How’d you figure that, then, Granger?’

She scratched at her arm. ‘The day the budget was supposed to be released. You didn’t come to the common room until late. You didn’t have Quidditch.’

‘I could have been studying. Or speaking with McGonagall.’

‘But you weren’t.’

He let out a slow breath. ‘No. I wasn’t. I was seeing my father,’ he said.

She felt herself tense, ready to react to something, But she just felt sort of sad. Sad for a man so young who hadn’t seen his father in almost a year.

‘And?’ she said, wondering why he was telling her this, remembering that she had, in fact, asked. ‘How is he?’

He looked at her like he knew just how disinterested she was in knowing the answer to that, but like he was grateful for it anyway. It was courtesy, and a chance to tell someone. Even if it was her.

‘He’s as good as he can be,’ he said. ‘He said the boredom’s the worst thing. You meet… prisoners in a sort of waiting room with charmed screens. So, what kind of cell he’s living in is purely left to imagination.’

‘Things are getting better at Azkaban since Kingsley started,’ Hermione told him. She recalled the resolutions he’d introduced in the months after the war ended, swift and absolute and passed too quickly to create outrage. Because they’d forget that the men and women in the cells were mothers and fathers, that maybe – just maybe, some of them _hadn’t meant to_. So yes, Kingsley promised them a bed, and food, and a clock so they didn’t forget what year it was, and that was something. ‘I’m not saying it’ll be a palace, but—’

‘You’re _really_ bloody naïve sometimes, Granger.’

She looked at him sharply. ‘There’s no pain in having hope, Malfoy.’

‘The more optimistic you are, the more you lose.’

‘We’ve all fucking _lost_ , Malfoy,’ she gritted out. ‘But winning – actually gaining or learning something – that’s worth more.’

‘Yeah, to you, maybe.’

She clambered to her feet and pulled her arms free of his blazer. It was silk-lined and she saw his initials sewn into the inner pocket in silver thread. The wind, this high, chilled her through her shirt. She folded his blazer carefully over the railing. 

‘I see we’ve still got some differences that need working out,’ Hermione said evenly.

He looked up at her with narrowed eyes. The irises looked white in the light. ‘I’m not changing my fucking opinions just to suit _yours_ , Granger.’

She just shook her head. She saw the final lines of the _Prophet_ ’s article, the report of the Muggle’s death. The way she’d grown angry and vengeful and felt that numbness that made her reach for her wand. And she saw Malfoy, walking from the hall, thinking about what this would mean for _him_. Part of her pitied him that he couldn’t see beyond himself sometimes.

‘Get over yourself, Malfoy,’ she said, taking steps towards the staircase. He cursed her as she put her hand on the railing, and she closed her eyes for just a moment, breathing deeply. She said, then, 'Sometimes I wish you would stop acting like people expect you to. I think you could be more.'

* * *

 

Hermione chewed on a bag of mini chocolate eggs that Harry had sent her from London. The bag rustled through the aisles of the library; she cast a Silencing Charm and hoped that Madame Pinch would be too busy dealing with book requests to notice.

The tables were packed with students, and the shelves looked near empty; the whole school was quietly, dutifully dealing with the onslaught of homework they’d been given for the Easter break.

She brushed the crumbs of sugar from the spine of the book she was reading, off the copy of the Spending Review, and the copies of _Daily Prophet_ papers she’d collected from the past few months. She tried to remember how she’d juggled homework and every challenge that Harry had thrown her way, and then she remembered that ultimately: she hadn’t. She’d left this school for him – for the horcruxes, for everyone she felt remotely concerned for. She’d given up her education for that.

She caught the movement, light as a shadow, out the corner of her eye, lingering, and her wand was tight in her hand faster than she could spin her torso around.

Luna blinked at the tip of Hermione’s wand, and then looked at its owner. Her face betrayed nothing.

Hermione lowered her wand with a slow breath.

‘Sorry, Luna. You scared me.’

‘I’m sorry, Hermione. I should have known you were in deep thought.’

‘It’s fine.’ Hermione lifted the bag. ‘Chocolate egg?’

‘Please,’ Luna said, carefully picking out a white one. ‘My mother and I used to make these when I was a little girl. Sometimes she’d charm them so they’d hatch with little chocolate chicks.’

Hermione looked at her uncertainly as she chewed. ‘I’m not sure I’d want to eat them, to be honest.’

‘It’s really no different to a Chocolate Frog,’ she said. Luna pulled a chair out and sat down, her eyes roaming the paper that spilled across the small desk. ‘Is there something you want to ask me, Hermione?’

Hermione tried not to stare. ‘How did you know?’

Luna passed her a smile. ‘Your voice, and your eyes. They’ve seemed heavy this past week. Like you’re not letting something go.’

Hermione reached across to Wednesday’s newspaper, and pulled it out from beneath an essay she’d written on medicinal properties found in the roots of the Whomping Willow. Oddly, it was Pansy who had worked with her on it, sitting on Hermione’s bed, tackling textbooks and old journals Pansy had found in the library to create a startlingly sound case for both their essays.

‘You’re smart,’ Hermione had said at one point, watching Pansy as she stuck the end of a biro she’d borrowed in her mouth.

‘Surprise,’ Pansy said dully. She hadn’t even looked up, and her lack of reaction – lack of insult that Hermione would have expected from her, as she would from Malfoy, was jarring.

‘It’s this report,’ Hermione said now to Luna. ‘I was wondering… Does your father know anything about it?’

‘My father?’ Luna asked quizzically.

‘Well, I was thinking, with your father being the editor of the _Quibbler_ …’

‘You wondered if he’d been told anything by the Ministry.’

‘Yes,’ Hermione said. She felt a flash of guilt, like she was using the girl, but she felt a little alone. No Remus or Dumbledore to turn to. No Ron to send word to Arthur. She had to use her resources. ‘I would ask Harry and Ron, or even Kingsley, but I’ve not really spoken to them this week, and I don’t have my placement this week because of the break.’

‘I understand,’ Luna said softly. ‘But I’m sorry, Hermione. I don’t know anything. I don’t know if he does, either. My father has tried to stay out of… those kinds of affairs.’

Death Eater affairs, Hermione knew she meant. The same kind of involvement that had caused Luna’s kidnapping. Hermione forgot sometimes that she hadn’t been the only one in that manor, waiting in darkness in that basement.

‘It’s all right. I was just being curious.’

‘You’re not trying to get involved with any of it, are you?’ Luna asked. ‘You’re not going to be stupid?’

The laughter got stuck in Hermione’s throat. ‘I think I’ve always been a little stupid, Luna,’ she told her.

Luna let a small smile form on her lips. ‘Want to know a secret?’ she said. ‘I think I have, too.’

And then Hermione did laugh.

‘But you know,’ Luna continued. ‘I think if you really did want to know more, you could always ask Professor Tenrin.’

‘Tenrin?’ Hermione said in confusion. ‘Why on earth would he know?’

‘He was still an Auror until last August. He spent three months hunting down Death Eaters after the battle here.’

Hermione stared. ‘How do you know this?’ _And why don’t I?_

‘He told us,’ Luna said, looking at her strangely, like she should have known something, like she couldn’t figure out how someone like Hermione Granger _didn’t_ know something. ‘Sometimes he adds context or history to the spells he teaches us. He’s an extremely good teacher. Very interactive.’

 _Good enough to last the year?_ Hermione thought.

‘You’ve always been a little bit… non-present in the lessons, Hermione. I wouldn’t worry that you haven’t heard him.’

Hermione looked at her, searching. ‘Non-present,’ she said.

Luna tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘I think you get distracted in Tenrin’s lessons,’ she said. ‘You… You seem too ready most of the time. Like you’re waiting for something to happen that the rest of us can’t see. So you drown everything out but the magic.’ She glanced away. ‘It’s – it’s a little frightening sometimes, Hermione. I thought Tenrin would have spoken to you by now about it.’

‘He’s an Auror,’ Hermione said impassively, mind too blank. She could feel herself trying to process Luna’s words, and another part shutting herself off. Because she was _fine_. ‘I don’t think speaking to young women about their feelings is really within their remit.’

‘He’s a teacher, Hermione,’ Luna reminded her softly. ‘He left that part of his life when he came here. And so should you.’

Hermione started shoving her notes and her Herbology essay and newspapers into her bag. She knew they’d crease, and the new ink might smudge, but the urge to get away from the look Luna was giving her was burning. Like there was something wrong with her. Like she didn’t understand that there had been a war and some people just _changed_. Like _Hermione_ , of all people, couldn’t change. Wasn’t allowed to. Had to remain the stalwart friend that solved people’s problems and wrote the introduction to people’s essays and wasn’t _ever_ allowed to let some part of herself go – let it fade into an ether that she couldn’t reach and had never wanted to.

‘Thanks, Luna,’ she said curtly.

‘Hermione, I’m sorry. I just meant… You seem so – so stressed, and anxious, like there are pixies flying everywhere, and you’ve been spending so much time with Malfoy and I can’t see that that’s healthy so—’

‘ _Malfoy_?’ she said sharply, pulling her bag onto her shoulder. ‘What’s Malfoy got to do with anything?’

Luna stared at her, like she’d gone mad. Like she wasn’t Hermione Granger. Hermione wondered who that was supposed to be to anyone, what version of her she had to show to different people.

‘Hermione, he _hurt_ you,’ she said imploringly. ‘For so many years. He said – he said _awful_ things to you. Did awful things. His aunt—’

‘Yes, I know what she did, thank you. What he did. But people change, Luna. I thought _you_ of all people would believe in second chances.’

‘Hermione—’

She shouldered past her, teeth gritted, hands shaking as they gripped the strap on her satchel. ‘Just _don’t_ , Luna. Not now.’

She strode from the library, ignoring the sharp look Madame Pinch gave her as she left.

 

* * *

 

Professor Tenrin’s office looked the same as Lupin’s always had, that same as Lockhart’s, except that it was immaculate, and there were no signed books and self-gratifying photos. Not a single spec of dust swam about in the rays of afternoon sunlight that spilled through the windows. No book out of place, the tomes pressed tightly onto the shelves around the room in some unapparent order. There was a small sofa in the office, pillows laid carefully at opposite ends, a throw placed over the back. Remarkably well-furnished, and its owner filled the room.

‘Miss Granger,’ he said, taking a seat behind his desk. ‘This is an unexpected surprise.’

‘Aren’t all surprises generally unexpected?’

He looked startled, and his laughter was short and harsh, like a dog bark. She couldn’t tell if he was amused or not.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said.

Hermione cleared her throat. ‘I hope you don’t mind me speaking with you.’

‘Not at all. I was just marking some third year essays.’ He waved a hand towards the seats in front of him, suddenly aware that she was still standing. ‘Please have a seat.’

Hermione sat, her satchel at her feet, hands neatly in her lap. She felt tiny in front of him; he was a boulder of a man.

‘How can I help you?’ he asked, voice deep and cavernous. It echoed around the small room. ‘I hope you’re not finding the essay I set you too difficult?’

‘No, I’ve completed it,’ she said. ‘I came here on a different matter.’

There was a heartbeat of silence. ‘Oh?’  

‘Regarding the Death Eater camp recently discovered.’

His look was long and searching. ‘I’m not an Auror anymore, Hermione. I’m a teacher. In a school.’

‘I understand,’ she said impatiently. He spoke to her like she was a child, like words needed to be slow and obvious and stares needed to be unwavering. ‘But I was just wondering if you had any more information on it. About who we’re up against. The reports say they were… radicalized?’

‘ _We’re_ not up against anything,’ he said sternly. ‘You are a pupil. In a school—’

‘Yes, I _understand_ that—’

‘And it is no _longer_ your responsibility to concern yourself with Ministry matters.’ His voice, so loud, drowned hers out completely.

 ‘If you could just tell me _something_ —’

‘ _No_ , Hermione,’ he cut in. ‘This is not your remit anymore. You need to stop running into danger when you are not needed, do you understand?’

‘Who’s leading them?’ she asked. Her hands gripped the arms of her chair. She felt her breath come quick and fast and desperate.

‘Miss _Granger_ , I won’t tell you again—’

‘Anything! Just anything at _all_.’

He stood suddenly, and his chair screamed as it slid against the floorboards.

‘I will have to ask you to leave, Hermione,’ he said in the silence, deeper, quieter, and she supposed it was his way of lowering his voice. ‘You could lose me my job.’

She reached down to pick up her satchel, and pulled it over shoulder. She remained seated, but her heart hammered in her chest, and she felt like she needed to run. Exactly where she didn’t know.

‘I’m sorry, Professor,’ she said. ‘It’s not what you think it is. I wasn’t – I’m not stupid enough to go and _find_ them. I just wanted to know something. I hate feeling so blind to what goes on outside these walls.’

She could hear the gears turning in his head, metal grating against metal, and his stare was alarming in its stillness. He couldn’t have been more than thirty, but she saw the white lines across his skin, the missing finger on his hand. She wondered what it would be like to be interrogated by him – if it would be like Bellatrix. If she’d give anything up. 

‘They call themselves Neo-Death Eaters,’ he said. And then his voice _was_ quiet, like waves rippling at night, like the slightest rustle of leaves. Like he was speaking in her head. No echo. ‘From what we’ve seen they’re more anti-Ministry than pro-Voldemort. Largely unemployed men with a bone to pick with the exchequer. Financial instability breeds hatred and violence. Mistrust and social instability.’ He sighed. ‘It’s an endless kind of cycle.’

‘If they’re not following Voldemort, then what about the Muggle girl?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t keep contact with the Department anymore.’ He shrugged. ‘Could be an accident – maybe she happened upon them? Maybe they’re trying to make themselves look like something else? Maybe… Things got out of hand.’

‘How so?’ she asked carefully. She thought she might already know the answer.

‘I’m not discussing this anymore. I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you, Professor,’ Hermione said. She walked towards the door. ‘I appreciate your help.’

He shook his head. ‘Don’t thank me. If it gets out that I’ve told you this… If you do something stupid, Hermione…’

She offered him a smile, a weak, paltry thing that died on her lips before it met her eyes. ‘I can keep a secret,’ she said.

And he looked at her and he knew exactly what she meant. ‘I know you can,’ he said. ‘But what I’m hoping is that you won’t have to.’

When she opened the door, she nearly walked straight into the body outside of it: tall and well-dressed and solid.

Theo’s eyes were bright with curiosity, and he pulled his ashy hair back from his face as he looked down.

‘I was just coming to look for you,’ he said.

Hermione glanced back at Professor Tenrin, nodded at him, and pulled the door shut.

‘I wanted to have a word with him about my essay,’ she explained.

‘I thought you finished that days ago.’

‘I did,’ she said, and shook her head in a poor attempt to clear it. ‘What was it you needed?’

‘I thought we should go to see Professor McGonagall. We still haven’t handed her our meeting notes.’

Hermione made a disgruntled sound. ‘I’d forgotten,’ she said irritably. ‘Let’s go now.’

Theo followed her as she walked quickly to the headmistress’ office, his long strides needing little effort to keep up. She caught his amused glance as they stood beside one another on the moving staircase of the office, his shoulder pressed against hers.

‘Bad day?’ he asked, voice loud over the sound of grinding stone as the staircase rotated upwards.

‘I’ve had better.’

He didn’t push it, and Hermione knocked on McGonagall’s door with a sharp rap on the wood. They entered when they heard the woman’s voice call out to them.

‘Miss Granger,’ she said as they walked in. ‘Mr Nott. How can I be of help?’

‘We have some notes for you, Headmistress,’ Theo said, walking forward with a few neatly written sheets of paper. ‘They’re from our meeting before the break started.’

The two head prefects sat down as her eyes flickered through the notes. Hermione caught the way they widened, and how her usually taught mouth relaxed as she turned the page. She glanced up at Hermione and Theo once, in a way that made Hermione tense, and then continued reading.

‘ _Well_ ,’ she said at last. ‘These is quite a proposal.’

Hermione cleared her throat, and Theo shifted in his seat beside her. ‘We understand if perhaps it’s a little far-fetched, Professor.’

‘Far-fetched?’ she asked, blinking. ‘Not at all, Miss Granger. Indeed, I think it’s a wonderful idea. It’s something I can easily imagine becoming tradition. To say the least, I think Professor Dumbledore would have been _very_ proud to know that this is the product of an inter-house effort.’

Hermione glanced at the old headmaster’s portrait. He sat there, eyes twinkling, staring down into the office, some sort of serene overseer. He wasn’t the real man, Hermione knew. His ghost – his soul – did not live within the living brush strokes. Anyone could have charmed a painting to become alive. But there was something in the way that he smiled at them, in the way that his eyes shone like pinpricks of daylight in a bleak sky, that Hermione felt a well of emotion rise within her. It wasn’t just McGonagall’s compliment. It was the way he could smile at her after what she’d said to Luna, after how she’d pushed Tenrin. It was that he still smiled at her when she felt so little like herself, and was yet to know who that was supposed to be.

‘Thank you, Professor,’ she said, and she was alarmed to realise that her voice sounded thick, and her words were difficult to come out.

The headmistress smiled at her in a sort of bemused way. ‘You’re welcome. I’ll help as much as possible as I can with this event, but… I _would_ like to see how you manage as a team to achieve this.’

‘I think we would, too,’ Theo said. ‘I haven’t run this by Hermione yet, but I wondered if perhaps we open up the planning of the event to ten or fifteen other students as well? If we work in teams to arrange each part of the event, it might give other students an opportunity to get involved.’

‘I agree,’ Hermione told him.

The headmistress nodded. ‘As do I. No doubt it would be something a little extra that students might put on their CVs.’ She picked up the last page of notes and glanced at it. ‘You’ll need to contact any vendors from Hogsmeade soon.’

‘We’ll do so this weekend,’ Hermione said. ‘We just needed your approval for this first.’

‘Well, I wholeheartedly consent,’ she said warmly. She made a flourish with her wand that lay on the desk, and a stamp of the Hogwarts crest unfurled on the front page of the notes. Proposal approved. ‘Best of luck with the planning, and I look forward to hearing how you progress over the next few weeks.’

They thanked her, and stood to leave, but the headmistress’ eyes sharpened, and her mouth grew tight again.

‘Miss Granger? A word in private, if you will?’

Theo glanced at her. ‘I can wait?’

Hermione shook her head. ‘I’ll see you later.’

So he left, and the door shut heavily, and the stone ground against stone, and Hermione let out a breath that felt like wind hurtling from her lungs.

‘How are you?’ McGonagall asked when she sat down again.

‘I’m fine. Thank you.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Only, I’ve heard a number of people express their concern about you, Miss Granger. I wanted to know if everything was… _well_ with you.’

Hermione blinked. ‘I’m – I’m fine, Professor,’ she managed to say. ‘Can I ask who came to you?’

Luna, maybe – or Neville. A teacher, perhaps? Surely Ginny hadn’t seen her enough to warrant a visit to the headmistress. Surely she wouldn’t betray her like this, knowing how she’d feel if Hermione had done this to her. Private chats with the Head of Hogwarts – that’s what Harry did, with his nightmares and his shared dreams with Voldemort. With his erratic anger and his perpetual fear and the constant price on his head. Hermione didn’t need that. She didn’t.

‘They came to me in confidence, Miss Granger,’ McGonagall said, a warning look in her eyes. ‘They came out of concern for you.’

‘I don’t want nor _need_ their concern, Professor,’ she bit out. Her arm felt like it was on fire. She tried to look out the window, to see the sun or a bird or a tree through the stained glass. Something to watch that wasn’t so close, that didn’t surround her and close her in. ‘Now, if that was all?’

‘Miss Granger, _I_ am concerned for you,’ the woman said loudly, voice carrying through the room so that Hermione was forced to sit straight. ‘Erratic magic, impulsive behaviour in lessons—’

‘ _Impulsive_?!’

‘Miss Granger, if you are struggling to keep up with your studies or your placement is proving difficult then you _must_ tell me. Or if not me then someone else. Let us help you.’

Hermione tried to breathe deeply. Her mouth felt dry. Woollen. Tongue sore like she’d been chewing on glass and the blood was getting in the way of the words. Had to be such a mess.

‘I’m fine. _Everything_ is fine.’


	20. Chapter 20

They both seemed startled to see each other, but they kept walking. And they were closer, and they nodded at each other, and they were closer still. And they seemed to realize at the same time that if the other didn’t move they’d walk into each other. And of course the other would move. Really they _should_ get out the way and their eyes widened and—

‘ _Fuck_ , Granger!’

‘ _Ow_!’

They groaned on the floor for a moment before Hermione dug her knee into something far too soft and—

‘Fucking _hell_!’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Hermione breathed, clambering to her feet. She tasted blood in her mouth, and he was holding his nose.

She held a hand out to him, which he batted away.

He rose to his feet with a terribly unfair sense of grace. Hermione didn’t think it was possible to do that when getting off the floor after colliding with someone in a corridor.

And – oh. He was glaring at her.

‘You should have moved out the way,’ he said through gritted teeth.

She glowered at him as she rubbed her forehead. ‘ _I_ should have? I’m sorry – your logic is placed _where_ , exactly?’

‘I’m taller. It’s more of an effort.’

And she laughed, and grew distantly aware that yes, he was taller. Much, in fact. He was always in the armchair, long and feline and pale. And she would be on the sofa with a coffee table like an island between them. They didn’t stand opposite one another – like they were having a conversation. Like normal people did.  

She scratched her nose. He sighed.

‘I was looking for you anyway,’ he said.

‘Excellent,’ she muttered. It seemed like everyone was.

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing. What did you want?’

She realised he was holding a stack of parchment, and he thrust it out towards her, as if that was explanation enough. He shook his wrist when she didn’t take them.

‘What is this?’ she asked, rifling through the sheets.

‘I did some research,’ he said.

She let her eyes rest on him for a moment, the way his shoulders rounded, and his trousers hung low on his hips, the way his sleeves were unbuttoned at the wrist, like he’d rolled them up, then remembered what dark smudge lay on his arm, and yanked them down again. He was looking somewhere far off, and she knew it was on purpose. He left nothing to chance, to be exposed to vague query and curiosity. He presented an image of himself that was exactly as he wanted people to see him, carefully fabricated and put together like the particular arrangement of limbs on a Greek statue.

Hermione thought, however, that he had let her look behind the stage curtain enough times, or forgotten to draw it across, so that she could peer at the mechanics and the rush of activity and the chaos that made him, and she thought that she was beginning to understand the sort of person that he was. Beyond the snideness and the sneering insults, and yet even in his unpleasantness and tense vulnerability, she saw sometimes saw herself.

‘Research on what?’ she finally asked.

‘See for yourself.’

‘I’d _much_ rather you told me,’ she said. ‘Then I know what I’m looking for.’ Her eyes scanned the paper, but the words were just ink black smudges swimming in front of her. Her ears were ringing faintly, distant bell peals.

Malfoy snatched the bundle from her hands. He crossed his arms, leaning back slightly on the balls of his feet, eyes looking somewhere above her.

‘Before the Dark Lord was defeated, his recruitment programme accelerated massively. He knew he’d face Potter here. Maybe knew it would be in that courtyard. He had the wand – thought he’d win. And so did hundreds of others. So what did they do? They _wrote their name down_.’

He jabbed a finger into the sheets of paper.

‘They wrote their _name_ down. Put down their blood status. Pure-blood only, of course. Put down the number of children they had, how much they earned. They put their life down on fucking sheets of paper.’

‘You don’t… How do you _have_ that?’ Hermione said, staring at the sheets in his hands, the whitening of his knuckles.

‘They’re copies. The Ministry confiscated the real ones from the manor. Said they were using it as a way of creating a census. Which, you know, was bullshit.’

‘Do they know you have it?’

He looked at her. ‘What do you think?’

‘I _think_ that you shouldn’t be walking around the corridors with it.’ She stared at him. ‘Are you nuts?’

‘You haven’t _got_ it, have you?’

‘Got what, Malfoy?’ she snapped. Because she didn’t think he was stupid. Didn’t think he was so close to finding some truth that he’d be _this_ careless.

He gripped her elbow – not tight, but strongly enough – and led her to one of the window sills, empty of glass, taller than Hermione, away from the students that were streaming out from the classrooms of their last lesson.

She went with him. Willingly. Stared at him as he sat on the edge of the ledge and stretched out his legs.

‘These names are written confirmation of everyone who supported the Dark Lord. _Or_ ,’ he conceded, ‘everyone who wanted to be seen supporting him. Everyone who knew that if things… went in his favour, that they would be covered when he came knocking. That their families would be covered.’

‘And in doing so they signed away their life.’

Malfoy nodded at her conclusion. ‘Most of it. Either a part of their income went and some of their freedom, or they’d face death.’

‘I know what I’d choose.’

‘You don’t have children. Loved ones.’

‘I had my parents.’

Malfoy stilled at that. ‘You’d sign them away so easily? I knew you were Gryffindor, Granger, but seriously?’

‘I could never support something I didn’t believe in. Ever. I could never live my life _scared_ all the time. Not like…’

‘Not like I did?’ His expression was grim.

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face.’

Hermione ran a hand through her hair. She wondered if her gums had stopped bleeding yet; there was a lingering taste of copper.

‘I’m really hoping there’s a point to all of this,’ she told him.

‘I just thought you’d be mildly interested.’

She glared at him. ‘Malfoy.’

His mouth twitched. She knew he’d smirk if he could. ‘There’s one name on here I’ve found particularly interesting–-’

‘You’ve gone through _all_ those names?’ Hermione interrupted, baffled. There must have been hundreds – _thousands_.

He gave her a look that said he knew she’d do the same if they’d been in her possession.

‘Do you want to know who or do you want to keep interrupting?’

‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Who was it?’

He sighed, leafing through the sheets. When he found the one he wanted, he pulled it out from the stacks. He pointed to a name, ringed in spiralled circles.

She crouched down, squinting.

‘ _De Clare_?’ she asked. ‘ _Alec_ De Clare?’

‘The very same.’

Hermione stared at the name, then glanced at the silver eyes, watching her. Waiting. ‘But this could mean nothing,’ she said. ‘You said it yourself. It could have been a way of defending himself. A fall-back.’

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. ‘I know. That’s not what this is about though. Look at the income.’

‘Eight thousand galleons a year,’ she muttered. ‘I mean. It’s a lot. But not for the job he has.’

‘Right. But I looked at his tax returns.’

‘What?’

‘The kid that fell off his broom – Graham Pritchard – his father’s a managing director of an accounting firm. He owed me a favour.’

Hermione just shook her head. ‘Of course he did,’ she wanted to say. But she knew how he hated that – the tone of her voice. Like she was assuming what his life was like. She began to realise what it must be like if someone spoke like that to her – like they knew how she lived. What kind of person she was.

‘He said that De Clare was filing tax claims for an income of twenty thousand. At least.’

‘In a year?’

‘Per quarter.’

Hermione stared. ‘That’s a lot of money,’ she said carefully. ‘He could have a side job? A staggered inheritance?’ She knew that a glance at Malfoy’s own accounts would make her eyes water. Lucius might have been in prison, but he’d probably made his own son’s life _very_ comfortable.

‘Doubtful. He wouldn’t have time for another job. And I’ve never heard of his family.’

‘His parents aren’t British. You probably wouldn’t.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything. And how do you know about his parents? I didn’t realise the two of you were so close.’

Hermione rolled her eyes. ‘I did a background check on him. We haven’t been playing footsie under the boardroom table if that’s what you were suggesting.’

Malfoy shot her an odd glance. ‘Believe me, I _wasn’t_.’

Hermione sighed. She watched the students that milled about. Some hurrying to their next lesson, others just loitering, talking with friends, laugh, rub their wrist. She used to sit there with Harry and Ron – just watching. Sometimes they’d talk while they sat, but usually the time would pass in silence. Sometimes a whole hour. Like they were trying to snatch glimpses of what life could have been like. If she hadn’t walked into their compartment on the train – if Harry hadn’t seen the Weasleys on the platform. There were a lot of ‘if’s and a lot of different paths she could consider, but she liked to think that regardless of the choices they all made, things would turn out relatively the same.

‘This still doesn’t mean anything, you know,’ Hermione told him eventually. ‘I can’t see him being stupid enough to file tax claims for stolen money. Especially not when they go through the Ministry’s treasury…’

Hermione trailed off. Malfoy’s gaze was intense.

It clicked suddenly. ‘He’d file his own tax returns, and he’d be the one to process them.’

‘D’you see what I’m saying?’ Malfoy asked.

‘But – but your contact could access them. He can see how much money he’s getting in.’

‘But Mr Pritchard doesn’t know that money’s being embezzled,’ Malfoy said. His voice, his posture – he’d taken on a sort of intensity that Hermione could feel coming off him in waves. ‘He doesn’t know what De Clare wrote down when he signed the Dark Lord’s censor – his – his declaration of support. Whatever you want to call it. For all Graham Pritchard’s father knows – for all _any_ accountant knows – that’s how much De Clare actually _earns_. He can’t piece anything together. De Clare’s name would be swallowed up by every other high-earning wizard in the country.’

‘But why write it down? Why document anything at all?’

‘Because, financially, it covers his back if anyone were to look at his account records. He’d just tell them he processed his employee income correctly, had it all taxed correctly, and that would be it. He has to keep the money in a bank somewhere. Can’t just keep it all in his house.’

‘And when they looked at the amount he earns, the eight thousand galleons, and realised it didn’t match up right, what then?’

‘He’s probably got a back-up story if someone does. But to be honest, I doubt it. He’s too high up for anyone to go prying.’

‘Not even Magical Law Enforcement?’ Surely they wouldn’t overlook him when looking at this whole case. He was too high up. Hermione thought they’d have learnt from their mistakes of ignoring those highest in power when looking for a culprit, but she knew it also wasn’t unlikely.

‘ _Especially_ Magical Law Enforcement,’ Malfoy said. ‘Why would they question an upstanding citizen like De Clare? Someone who works hard and brings money back into the government? Someone who files his income correctly – however large, wherever it comes from – and doesn’t evade paying his taxes like a good wizard should.’

Hermione thought that Malfoy seemed too familiar with this. She wondered how much of his family’s income had been authentic and clean, and remembered that they were the Malfoys, and that it would probably _seep_ with blood if she wrung it out.

‘And the money he’s supposedly been receiving as income,’ Hermione said. ‘The twenty thousand per quarter. It matches up with the amount that’s been missing from the Spending Review?’

‘No,’ Malfoy said. ‘He’s not earning enough – _reporting_ nearly enough for that to be the case. But he could be channelling it to offshore banks that he wouldn’t need to make any claims for. Could be that Vivian and Philip are working with him and splitting the rest evenly between them. I couldn’t get access to any of their personal financial information, so I don’t know.’

‘And if you’re wrong,’ Hermione said. ‘If the money is his, then where is it coming from?’

‘Haven’t got a clue. Maybe he won the fucking lottery. Maybe he does have other business ventures that we don’t know about.’

‘But you doubt it.’

‘I doubt it a _lot_.’

‘And if you’re _right_ ,’ Hermione said slowly. ‘If De Clare is the one behind this… Do you think he’s connected to the new Death Eater camps?’

Malfoy leaned back. ‘Possibly. It would explain how they’re being funded. De Clare never took the Mark – his name was never mentioned.’ He cocked his head. ‘That doesn’t mean he wasn’t a supporter though. His name here would stand as a minimum of evidence at least.’ 

Hermione let this information sink in. It was easy to have this conversation in public. She was too scared of people listening in private. She remembered what Jordan said in _The Great Gatsby_ , how there was never any privacy at small parties. How you could sit in a room, eyes furtive, glancing at shadows and holding your breath to hear a creak from the door. There was too much noise here. Too many people moving. Their words were lost.

But past that, Hermione thought about the fact that Malfoy could be _right._ And it was not so much the information itself that surprised her – it was whom it had come from. Who had willingly given it to her in a neat stack of evidence. No evenings spent in the library with her eyes straining and fingers and face splotchy with spilled ink pots. No heavy tomes and hard chairs­ that hurt her back and stabbed her sharply between the shoulder blades. He’d done it for her – with contacts and money. With an eye for perception and a mind that was quick and intelligent. How easy it had all been.

‘You could have done this,’ she said. ‘You didn’t need me.’

‘We’re not there yet,’ Malfoy replied. He seemed to know exactly what she was talking about. And this happened a little too often for her liking. She never stopped wondering if he could hear her mind, sometimes. If he’d cursed her when she wasn’t looking, in one of those rare moments when her guard was down: a sip of her drink, putting a log on the fire, letting her eyes drift on the sofa. He could have done it so easily, and she knew it was almost like she’d let him.

‘You would have been good at finding Horcruxes,’ Hermione told him.

‘Shame I was on the other side.’

‘That almost sounded like you meant it.’

He rose to his feet, all limbs and pale grace, and faced her. He didn’t fit with the people that swarmed around behind him, and Hermione thought she’d always known that – or maybe it just seemed so obvious now. That he was ‘other’.

He said, ‘Sometimes I think I do.’

 

* * *

 

She forgot McGonagall’s words quickly. Forgot Tenrin’s heavy looks and the quietness of Luna’s voice. Her eyes were filled with names.

Names of people who were desperate. People who were cowards. People who were Muggleborn and claimed to be pure-blood, and people whose blood she couldn’t guess. People who she didn’t know – some she knew painfully too well.

They were names of people who’d been stupid, really. Stupid to think this could protect them if it had come to it, and even more stupid to think it could protect them now that it hadn’t. She wondered how quickly the Ministry was working their way through the list, and when – _if_ – it would ever reach Alec. 

She ate dinner in her room. A bowl of soup, a chunk of brown bread. Her bedside window steamed up from the heat of it, and she found herself trailing her finger through the condensation, feeling the cold on the skin of her hand. Her back ached from sitting hunched over on her bed, the lists spread out across the sheets like they were rose petals.

Hermione went to the bathroom, brushing her teeth, washing the day’s grime off her face, and pulling her hair into a loose plait. She wandered back into her room, feet scuffing on the floor, and then she saw the owl.

It just sat there, small, black, almost unnoticeable against that darkness that had fallen behind it. It stared at her, letter in its mouth, and then it blinked. Large, orange eyes shutting for a heartbeat.

‘Who let you in?’ Hermione muttered, walking over to the windowsill. She glanced at the fireplace in her room. It was empty of wood – unused. They were asked not to use them when students and guests of Hogwarts had almost burnt alive in their sleep with the fires lit.

She ran a finger across the top of its head, the feathers soft and fragile, and the letter came from its beak easily.

 _HJG_ , the envelope read. The handwriting was cursive and unfamiliar, the paper thick and made of vellum. It was traced in a thin silver pattern, and she detected a hint of vanilla from the material.

The letter inside was just as pristine, but her eyes skimmed the words.

 _Dear Hermione_ , it read.

_It is with great pleasure that I extend this invitation to you to attend a celebration for my 25 th birthday in two weeks’ time. _

_Celebrations will be held at my family’s château in Haute-Garonne, including drinks, a formal dinner, and followed by evening entertainment. Guests are welcome to stay the evening, and portkeys will be provided for transport to and from the château._

_I would be most grateful if you could respond at your earliest convenience by owl. Please find any other relevant information on the card attached._

_I hope that you will be able to attend._

_Your faithful friend,_

_Alec De Clare_

 

* * *

 

 

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me.’

‘“Me” is exponentially vague, Granger.’

‘And yet somehow you figured it out.’

She heard him sigh as he opened the door. He wore a white t-shirt and grey cotton pyjama bottoms. His hair was messy. His eyes looked bruised, and she wondered if that was her fault.

He could fix it, she thought. Then remembered he liked that. Liked the bandages and the excuse to talk about how much he’d suffered. How _wronged_ he’d been. Still desperate for someone to acknowledge that he’d been hurt too.

‘Are you going to ogle me all night, or did you want something?’

Hermione huffed as she stalked past him.

‘Oh, by all means,’ she heard him mutter.

Malfoy’s room was neat, but surprisingly well lived-in. The sheets on the bed were wrinkled; there was an empty coffee mug on the bedside table. Books filled his desk, some unopened, some filled with notecards. He had what looked like a journal open, a silver fountain pen uncapped in the spine.

Hermione sat on the edge of his bed, suddenly aware that she wore only shorts. That the vest was thin. That his window was ajar and the April air that slipped through was bitter.

‘Read this,’ she said, holding the letter out to him. ‘It just arrived.’

He gave her a steady look before taking it, and then threw a dressing gown at her from the back of his door.

He muttered something as she pulled it on, tying the sash around her waist, waiting for her before he unfolded the letter.

His eyes darted across the page, lingering for a long time at the final lines.

‘You have to go,’ he said eventually.

‘Of course I’m going,’ Hermione said. She cleared her throat. ‘There’s a plus-one.’

‘And?’

‘And you have to come with me.’

He fell into the desk chair with far too much poise. Hermione thought she’d fall off if she tried to do the same. Ron was taller than him, but somehow he’d never carried it – he’d been gangly and flailing. Made her laugh with his clumsiness. Malfoy just made her stare. She wasn’t sure what was worse.

‘I wouldn’t be welcome,’ he finally said. There was something about the way he said it that betrayed the dullness of his tone. Something sharp – a blade hidden beneath a rock. It wasn’t ‘no’, though. It wasn’t an impulse comment on how it would revolt him to be with her. It was… self-reflection? Shame?

‘I don’t care,’ Hermione told him, pulling her legs onto the bed. Malfoy’s bed. She rubbed at the back of her neck, tucked a stray curl behind her ear. ‘If he doesn’t let you come, then I won’t go. It’s at a bloody château anyway. He’s probably invited enough people that we wouldn’t see him.’

He raised an eyebrow. Probably at her use of the word ‘we’.

‘It’ll only be as big as the manor,’ he said. ‘It’s probably smaller.’

Hermione tried to hide her grin. ‘Sure. He’s probably just compensating.’

‘Probably,’ Malfoy said, resting a foot on his knee. The movement was dismissive; there was something lazy about it. But his silver eyes twinkled. He’d caught onto the joke too quickly. Better: he wasn’t even offended. ‘What’s the chance Potter would lend us his cloak?’

Hermione frowned. ‘If it’s you, then slim. No offence.’

He shrugged.

‘What for, anyway?’

‘You’re getting the chance to go to our main suspect’s house and you’re _not_ going to snoop around when it’s handed to do you on a silver platter?’ Malfoy shook his head. ‘I underestimated you, Granger.’

‘He doesn’t live there, Malfoy. It’s his parents’ place.’

‘I don’t live at the manor three quarters of the year, Granger. Doesn’t mean I don’t keep all my dark secrets locked up there.’

‘You’re very bad at hiding them if you’re telling me that.’

He could somehow make his eyes smile – no, _smirk_ – without even moving his lips. ‘I thought we were speaking hypothetically?’

He was scarier now that he was, what, better? Remorseful? Less loathsome? But Hermione thought that maybe he was scarier _because_ he was better. Because she had to try and find reasons to hate him now. They didn’t fall into her lap. She had to wonder if he’d always been like this and maybe she’d never seen it – never seen that there was something in him that was worthwhile and something that almost made her want to spend time with him.

But maybe – a part of her wondered too – maybe he wasn’t better. Maybe she was getting used to scary.

‘We go there,’ Malfoy said. ‘We say hello. Pretend to eat their food. Take it in turns to have our own private tour.’

‘And then what? What are we looking for?’

‘Anything,’ he said, shrugging.

‘Yes. Well. You see. You can’t _really_ go _looking_ around a castle for something that could be anything. Or _nothing_.’

‘You did, didn’t you? You had no idea what you were looking for.’

‘But we had months.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Malfoy said snidely. ‘I didn’t realise you’d set yourself a time limit on how long you could leave people to keep _dying_ before you did something about it.’

‘Don’t you fucking _dare_ start this with me,’ Hermione snapped. ‘I didn’t see you making a contribution of any particular merit.’

‘I was under _house arrest_. I couldn’t even walk out of my fucking _bedroom_.’

Hermione gritted her teeth. His knuckles were white where he gripped the armchair.

‘We’re not doing this,’ she said.

She was sitting on his bed, wearing his robe.

In another universe, their argument could have been about far less – maybe far more – than it should have been at that moment.

‘We can’t,’ she said. ‘And I will be damned if we pull this kind of shit in front of Alec.’

‘I’m sure _Alec_ will find the whole thing very amusing.’

‘He’s the junior exchequer at twenty-five. I’m not sure he finds much amusing.’

Malfoy snorted at this, leaning back in his chair. He reached behind him for the journal on his desk, and started doodling on the page with his pen. It was silver, and most likely had his initials etched on it somewhere. ‘I thought you found him charming.’

‘I found him… uninspiring.’

‘Ouch.’

Hermione cast him an amused glance. She stood up, walked around the bed, and fell back onto it until she lay on her stomach.

‘Be my guest,’ Malfoy said.

‘Thanks,’ she said, propping her chin up in her hand. ‘I think your bed might be more comfortable than mine.’

‘I _think_ you’re taking liberties.’

‘I can leave?’ she said.

He just shrugged. ‘I won’t sleep for a while anyway.’

‘What were you doing before I rudely interrupted?’

‘You’re being very self-observant this evening.’

‘And you’re… as unchanging as ever,’ she finished lamely. At least she could count on him to be obnoxious and snide and a little bit hateful. He was never apologetic; never tried to hide behind false truths and hesitant attempts at flattery.

‘I was reading,’ he said. ‘And trying to write a journal entry.’

‘I used to keep a diary,’ Hermione said, sort of wistful. ‘It became difficult after a while. There was too much to write.’

‘Lucky you that your life is so thrilling.’

‘Terrifying, mostly,’ she corrected. ‘I wasn’t sure I wanted to have to read all of it back one day.’

‘There’s this thing called a _pensieve_ , Granger…’

‘Which isn’t always reliable. Memories fade over time. Fine if you’ve stored your life in vials whenever something happens, but how we see things _changes_.’

‘Fair point.’

Hermione looked at him in surprise. ‘You’re saying I’m right?’

‘I’m saying you made a good point,’ he replied evenly.

She shook her head. ‘You can’t even concede that much, can you?’

‘No.’

She sighed, and the conversation lulled into quiet. He sat there, pen spinning so fast between his fingers it was a blur. His robe was warm, and she could feel her eyes growing heavy.

‘Sorry, by the way,’ she murmured.

‘What for?’ he said, and she could hear the faint curiosity in his tone, even if maybe he’d tried to keep it out.

‘What I said this morning. At the Astronomy Tower. That was personal and I shouldn’t have pried.’

‘I thought we didn’t really do apologies,’ he said.

‘Is that our rule?’

‘Seemed like it,’ he said. And he was right. They didn’t do apologies. They were nasty to each other, sometimes cruel for the sheer hell of it. And then the next morning they’d be trading sharp quips and be damn near courteous to each another like nothing had happened. And then they’d start again.

But they never apologised. Never acknowledged that they’d really, _actually_ said the last thing that passed their lips. What did it mean now that she had? Would they have to start apologising? Wouldn’t it just lose any meaning every time they used it? Maybe they’d actually try and start being nicer to save the embarrassment of the necessary apology.

But no. The niceness would be more embarrassing.

She sighed, and said, ‘There were a lot of names.’

‘Hm?’ He hadn’t looked up from his journal, like he was reading his words – doubting them.

‘The census. Whatever they’re calling it. There were a lot of names.’

‘People submit to fear more often than they’d like to admit.’

Hermione’s head bobbed at his aphorism. ‘The Order was so tiny when I think about it. So many witches and wizards who could have done so much good… And the Order was made up of less than twenty. How insane is that?’

‘You give everyone too much credit,' he said. And then he paused. ‘No. You set yourself up for satisfaction and believe the best in everyone, so it hits you so bloody hard when they disappoint you and prove you wrong.’

‘Like you,’ she said. She didn’t mean to say it, she told herself. Didn’t want to be the one to keep picking and instigating an argument and torment and _hurt_ when it probably wouldn’t have been too hard to get along. Probably.

But he just looked at the words on the pages of his journal and said, ‘Yes. Like me.’


	21. Chapter 21

The Festival grew closer, and the nights lasted longer. Luna crafted jewellery made of plants and roots and shells that were half awe-inspiring and half terrifying. Strange smells wafted from the portrait to the kitchen. Trelawney ran groups that made glittering banners and bunting and the make-shift beginnings of stalls, and the Frog Choir could be heard in the halls as they practiced for a showcase.

The proprietors of Hogsmeade businesses had signed off last week on selling their wares at the festival, and even Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour from Diagon Alley had offered to contribute.

More noticeable than everything else was the _absence_ of students. Buried under revision cards and pushing the festival to the back of their minds as something vague and disinterested.

And Hermione couldn’t blame them – it was okay. Because she would have done the same, lost in exam timetables and ink-covered hands and surviving on bread rolls and satsumas and too much tea. She used to be like them, a haunt of the library. But that was then, before the forest and the bank vault and that dining room. Before her robes felt scratchy against her skin, and her shirt was too loose everywhere but around her throat and her shoes felt like they pinched her with every step.

Everything used to seem important then – even the mundane. The trivial.

Like trying to find a dress.

‘What about this one?’

Ginny held hers up in front of Luna’s. ‘Or this one?’

Hermione sighed. Her nerves were shot, her mind frazzled. She’d spent the weekend traipsing around Muggle London. Through Diagon Alley and every little-known wizarding world that had a dress store.

‘This is ridiculous,’ she said harshly, dragging dresses across hangers until the metal screeched and Luna and Ginny winced at the sound. They were royal purple and periwinkle blue, satin and cashmere. But they could be any colour – feel like anything to the skin. Hermione wished her imagine was _more_ sometimes.

Ginny held another dress up; it was green and silky and long and _Ginny_ , and the one Luna held in her arms was disguised beneath frills and buttons and so much _yellow_.

‘Hermione, give us _something_ to go on other than _no_.’

She passed Ginny an apologetic look. ‘I don’t know. It just needs to be perfect.’

‘I’ve seen you with mud under your nails and leaves in your hair when you haven’t showered in _weeks_ —’

‘You really did smell,’ Luna offered.

‘—and _perfect_ was the last thing on your mind.’

‘Tomorrow night is different,’ Hermione told them.

‘You’re going for dinner,’ Luna said.

‘It’s a ball.’

‘You’re going to eat _food_.’

‘I’m going to—’

Hermione stopped short, ignoring their curious glances, the way they seemed to be waiting. Because she hadn’t told them anything, and that guilt ached more than the way she bit her tongue to stop the words coming out. But telling them would mean more than just saying what she was doing – it would mean telling them who she was doing something _with_ , and she thought that was worse.

Hermione looked again at her friends, and when their gazes slid past her, it was all she needed to know. Ginny clenched her jaw and grew defiant, and Luna seemed wary and… hidden. Like a part of her had drawn in on itself and gone away for a little while.

‘Looking for dresses, Malfoy?’ Hermione said, turning around.

‘Just browsing,’ he replied, hands running over the hangers.

Seriously?’

He gave her a dull look. ‘No. I’ve been looking for you.’ _You’re still unprepared_ , he seemed to be saying.

Her hair had grown three times its size that day, and her hands were clammy and she desperately wanted a shower. She thought she couldn’t look anything less than prepared.

Hermione turned to Ginny and Luna. They put the dresses back on the hangers.

‘See you later?’ Ginny guessed.

Hermione grimaced. ‘Sorry… I said I’d speak to him about some placement things.’

That was their guise. Had been for a few months now. She wasn’t sure why she’d started using it; why they needed to have some sort of excuse for the fact that they were able to just talk to one another, and Malfoy had never said anything about the excuse she poorly offered others. But it still gave her a pang of guilt.

‘In Gladrags Wizardwear?’ Ginny said dubiously.

Hermione blinked.

Malfoy stepped forward. ‘Granger was supposed to meet me in the Three Broomsticks half an hour ago,’ he said. ‘I remember she said something about a ball. I thought I might find her here.’

Hermione let a grimace form on her face. He was watching her, bemused. Maybe he was enjoying the little charade she had made up, now an actor in her small, self-atoning play. 

‘Sorry,’ she told him. ‘I… lost track of time.’

‘Right,’ Ginny said. Her suspicion was plain on her face, and she was not attempting to keep the distrust from flickering in her eyes when she looked at Malfoy. ‘Well, we’ll just… See you later then?’

‘Sorry,’ Hermione said again, conscious of Malfoy at her back, the way Ginny just shrugged and Luna offered a small, confused wave as they headed to the stairs.

When Luna’s bright hair disappeared, and the sound of their quiet conversation was lost, Hermione whirled on him.

‘What are you _doing_ here?’

He gave her a flat look. ‘You’re a terrible liar—’

‘Which says more about _you_ than me, I think.’

‘—and you still haven’t got a dress.’

She wanted to hit something. ‘I’m contemplating jeans and a t-shirt at this point,’ she said. She looked at him pensively. It probably came a little late, but his being there struck her as a little odd. ‘Honestly, what _are_ you doing here?’

‘I often come to Hogsmeade at the weekend, Granger.’

‘I meant in here. On this floor.’

‘I sensed a woman in distress.’

Hermione rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t think helping is in your nature.’

‘Are you sure you know me that well?’ Malfoy asked. He wandered over to the corner of the shop where the dresses didn’t have price tags and the material felt like stars in her fingers.

‘Unfortunately,’ Hermione said. She sat down on a padded sofa that pressed against a wall-length mirror.

He ignored her comment. ‘What sort of thing are you looking for, by the way?’

‘I don’t know. Just… I was hoping to stumble across the right dress.’

‘You could stop being so backwards and start with a colour.’

‘What colour is your suit?’

‘Blue,’ he said. ‘I believe my tailor called it Prussian blue. Brown shoes. White shirt.’

‘Blue,’ Hermione said. ‘That’s bold.’ She ignored the ‘my tailor’ part. 

He wasn’t listening to her. He was muttering something, and she nearly missed the wand he held so loosely in his hand. Something sparked from the end.

‘ _Malfoy_ ,’ she hissed. ‘You can’t charm unsold property! You’ll set the alarm off!’

He shrugged, and picked the dress up off the hanger, shoving it in her arms.

‘It’s temporary. Just try it on.’

‘Malfoy—’

‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered. He pulled her arm and dragged her to the changing room, throwing her into the room with a harsh shove.

The door clicked behind her as she spat material from her mouth. There was just so _much_ of it and­—

 It made her look interesting.

She thought it was ridiculous when people said they couldn’t recognize themselves because of clothing. Because of the way fabric ran over the curves and strong lines of their body. But she thought she understood what they meant – she wasn’t unrecognisable, but some sort of focus had changed, like puzzle pieces had been rearranged to make a different picture.

Her skin was too pale, and her collar bones too sharp, but the silver seemed to make her glow. It clung to her sides, sloping over her stomach in a ruche, and billowed outwards in layered cascades of silk. The sweetheart neckline was dotted with pearls that seemed to make her brown eyes glitter.

She cast a glamour over her face, a veil of make-up that lay so close no one would tell the difference. Her hair crept off her shoulders, tickling her neck as it floated upwards, twisting to frame her face and sitting at the back of her head in a loose chignon.

‘Shall you go to the ball, Granger?’

Hermione huffed a laugh as she opened the dressing room door. ‘Not quite the fairy godmother I’ve ever hoped for,’ she said.

She held her wrist awkwardly as he stared at her, eyes passing over the basque waistline, the pearls sprinkled in her hair like diamonds, the laced back he could see in the mirror behind her. He looked briefly at her face, at her bare shoulders.

But those looks were brief, and his expression was vague and empirical, a scientist staring at a dissection jar. A tailor looking at a piece of fabric on an empty mannequin. Searching for broken seams or loose gathering.

Hermione felt small under that gaze, and the dress didn’t make her feel like a princess anymore, or a person. She forgot what those grey eyes could do.

‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘It’ll do.’

Hermione crossed her arms across her stomach. ‘It’ll do? What would you change?’

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It’ll do.’

Hermione waited for something else, but he just closed the door again. She changed quickly and headed downstairs to the till with the dress hung over her arm. She handed over an amount of galleons so heavy that her palm felt too light after it.

Malfoy stood close behind her as the dress was arranged carefully in a garment bag.

 ‘Please tell me you have shoes,’ he muttered.

 ‘I’ve packed everything else.’

‘Small mercies.’

‘I admit I’m a little scared,’ she whispered, like she was making a confession. The man behind the counter was shooting curious looks between the two of them as he tucked the skirt of the dress in the bag, like he wondered if the one knew who the other was. ‘About tomorrow.’

‘We’re going to dance and eat food, Granger,’ he told her, mimicking Luna’s words.

‘And snoop around a castle to see if our host is leading a neo-Death Eater movement. Easy sorts of things.’

‘Don’t be grim. It might be fun.’

Hermione took the dress from the cashier with a smile of thanks. ‘Fun is a _very_ ambitious word,’ she said as they walked from the shop.

He walked by her side until they found themselves in front of the Three Broomsticks. Students and staff and locals trickled in and out. Flowers were blooming in the windowsill pots and the sky streaked pink behind the thatched roof. They could hear laughter and tankards clacking from inside.

‘Do you… want to go in?’ Hermione asked. ‘I’d like a drink.’

Malfoy brushed passed her. ‘I’d like three.’

They found a table nestled beneath one of the back windows; it looked out onto green fields recovering from the early spring snowfall and large, solitary farmhouses whose chimneys puffed out smoke against the setting sun.

‘Nice day,’ Hermione said absently, putting a jug of water on the table. She lay her dress out on the bench as she sat down and Malfoy brought over a butterbeer and a fire whiskey.

He settled them down on the table and said, ‘You’re not backing out from tomorrow, are you?’

‘What?’ Hermione said, frowning. She swallowed a mouthful of butterbeer then wiped at her mouth. ‘I haven’t just spent _that_ much money on a dress to not wear it. I don’t think I’ve ever spent that much money full stop.’

Malfoy took a sip of his whiskey. He winced. ‘You’ll find other uses for it,’ he said.

‘What if it doesn’t work?’

‘The dress?’

‘Tomorrow night,’ she said. ‘What if we don’t find anything?’

‘Then we keep looking.’ Malfoy gave her a steady look. ‘I think the question I’d be asking more carefully, is what if we _do_?’

‘Then the problem is solved. We go to the Ministry – to Kingsley.’

‘If De Clare’s at fault, then he’s been leading bands of wizards to kill Muggles. That’s not the kind of person you just _go to the Ministry_ about.’

‘For once I don’t want to have to keep fighting and trying to find peace without any back-up,’ Hermione said. She pulled her jumper over her head, skin feeling warm. ‘I’ve done that. For eight years. And it was _exhausting_.’

‘I’m just giving you fair warning, Granger,’ Malfoy said. His tumbler was somehow empty, and Hermione realised her own tankard was too. He motioned at a passing waitress who brought them another round. ‘This might be bigger than we wanted it to be.’

‘You’re forgetting that I’ve been friends with Harry for those eight years.’

He tipped his glass towards her in acquiescence. ‘How is Potter?’ he asked. Almost like he wanted to know the answer.

Hermione quirked an eyebrow. ‘You’re concerned about his welfare?’

‘It’s been very quiet on that front,’ he said. ‘It used to be _well, Harry and I did this_ and _Ronald and I did that_. Has it all lost its novelty?’

 _Novelty_? Hermione thought. That year hadn’t been an adventure. It had been a nightmare. Clinging on to real people and the thought that she hadn’t been alone kept her sane those first wintry months back at Hogwarts. They’d been all she’d known that year. Sometimes thought they were all she’d ever known.

Sometimes she thought it was about not being forgotten. _I was there too_ , it said. Pleaded. Desperate for people not to think she’d done nothing, that she’d sat by while their families died and her while her classmate’s blood ran through the cracks in the stone floor.

And while she didn’t tell Malfoy that, his look was long enough that she didn’t dismiss the idea that he knew exactly what she was thinking.

‘They’re fine,’ she said at last. ‘I think. We’ve been busy.’

‘Seems strange that such a friendship would dissolve over a few months of silence—’

‘That is a _very_ presumptuous statement. You know that’s not how friendship works, right? It doesn’t just break apart with distance and quietness. It takes a break, sits in the background until – until both parties are mutually ready.’

Malfoy downed his tumbler. ‘That is the biggest load of shit I have _ever_ heard.’

Hermione’s look was withering. ‘ _You_ don’t get to comment on _my_ friendship. It’s not exactly like you and Nott and Blaise and any other of your Slytherins are the epitomes of friendship. You live in the same _castle_ and yet you struggle to find something nice to say to one another.’

‘We don’t really do _nice_ ,’ he said. He placed his hands on top of the table, long fingers linked neatly.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Of course. You do thinly veiled insults and half-hearted attempts at murder.’

He laughed at that. It was warm and deep, and his shoulders rounded with the sound. It shocked her that such a thing could come from him.

‘What do you think I do to my enemies then?’ he asked.

‘Probably offer them roses. That’ll scare them more.’

He laughed again, but this was quieter, and rough at the edges. His face looked warm. His glass was empty again.

‘Do you want another?’ Hermione asked.

‘No. Thank you. I need a clear head.’

‘For tomorrow?’

‘For now,’ he said ambiguously. He stood suddenly, before she could say anything. ‘We should go. I have an essay to submit in the morning before we leave.’

Hermione stood, pulling her jumper back over her head. She threw a few galleons on the table and hung her dress over her arm. ‘Did you sign off with McGonagall?’

‘Of course,’ he said. He held the door open for her as they left. ‘That would make for an interesting Portkey experience. I’m sure De Clare wouldn’t appreciate a group of Aurors crashing his party, anyway.’

‘I suppose there’ll be a few there anyway. Ministry colleagues, et cetera.’

Malfoy shoved his hands into his pockets. His strides were long and graceful and _boozy_. Hermione tugged on his arm to slow him down – half because she couldn’t keep up, and half because she feared he’d go stumbling if he loped too fast, a slight sway to his steps.

He reacted as if he hadn’t touched her, but he slowed. ‘I suppose I should change my use of the word “party” if there’ll be Aurors. Bet they’ll be gagging to fire a few hexes at me.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘And why not?’

Hermione struggled to hold up the dress. It was a heavy thing for something that felt so light when she wore it; her fingertips could brush over the fabric like slipping through water and air.

She heard Malfoy sigh deeply. He grabbed the garment bag from her, draping it over a broad shoulder. He looked like he’d spent a lifetime picking up dry-cleaned suits and buying dresses that cost a thousand galleons.

And then he put his arm around her.

She felt her mind freeze, words like cloud and mist in her stormy head, but her feet kept going.

It was heavy and a little uncomfortable, but it drew her close to his side. He was warm and solid and the feel of him was so strange.

‘Malfoy,’ she said.

‘Mm?’

‘Are you—Your arm— I think—’

‘ _I_ think I’m a bit drunk, Granger,’ he said. ‘Let me regret things tomorrow?’

Hermione gritted her teeth. His arm wouldn’t move.

‘Oh, I _will_.’

 

* * *

 

The château was terrifying. Magnificent and white and turreted and absolutely terrifying. Three times the size of the manor. The guest quarters steeped over a river with huge shuttered windows and balconies with flower boxes brimming with peonies and irises and paulownia blossoms. The arches were large enough for small boats to drift through.

The entrance hall could have been Hermione’s house, and she sputtered through her greeting to Alec as a porter took her bag and Malfoy glanced around disinterestedly. Mirrors with gilded frames clung to the walls, surrounded by portraits of people with dark eyes and dark hair and sun-gilded skin. A chandelier glinted above her, and the marble floor was gleaming and echoed every footstep.

‘I hope you travelled well?’ Alec asked, hands clasped. He wore dark jeans and a shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

‘For all of ten seconds, yes,’ Malfoy said.

Alec smiled at him, but it was only his mouth turning upwards.

‘I’m terribly sorry, but I seem to have misplaced your name in the back of my mind,’ he said. ‘I’m expecting three hundred guests or so this evening – you’ll understand my forgetfulness.’

‘Draco,’ Hermione said quickly. ‘This is Draco Malfoy. Malfoy, Alec De Clare.’

‘Pleasure,’ Malfoy said, offering his hand. ‘Again.’

Alec looked at it, and then his gaze slid past them as another huddle of guests walked through the main doors.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. He pressed a hand lightly on Hermione’s arm, and then he was gone. Swallowed up by clean-cut men and girls that glittered of Paris, men that smelled of cigars and kept a box of tobacco in their pockets and women whose tweed jackets and neck scarves would cost thrice what Hermione’s dress had.

A grey-haired man in a business suit walked up to Hermione and Malfoy, and she had to drag her eyes away. ‘If you would both like to follow me, Madamoiselle, Monseiur,’ he said, French accent almost hidden in his voice. ‘I will show you to your room.’

‘Room?’ Hermione asked. ‘Singular?’

The look he gave her was not as apologetic as she would have liked. ‘Almost all of the invited guests have chosen to stay this evening. We’re quite at our capacity, I’m afraid, and we have had to room most members of the same parties together.’

Hermione looked at Malfoy. He shrugged. She looked at the butler. His smile was blank.

‘If you’d like to follow me?’

They followed. Hermione lagged slightly, staring at the curtains that hung the same length of trees in the Great Forest. They glittered like the warm sun that hit the river she could see through the windows. Sunlight spread out against the walls of the staircases, onto portraits and mirrors and drapes and trophies and medals hanging on invisible shelves.

She watched Malfoy as he walked in front of her, back straight, hands in the pockets of his trousers. His hair was messy and there were light bags under his eyes. He had the distinct air of a leopard with a headache. He’d barely said a word to her all day, just nodded at her as she opened the door to her room at Hogwarts, then picked up her bags and walked to the portkey in the middle of her bedroom.

She wondered if he remembered yesterday. The arm that he’d put around her shoulders. That she’d grown used to so quickly, and found herself falling into as she walked next to him. The back of his hand had brushed her cheek at one point, warm against her cold skin.

‘Want my jacket?’ he’d murmured.

‘No,’ she’d said back. Quiet. Thinking about the stitching of his initials pressing against her neck.

‘This is your room,’ the Frenchman said, and Hermione snapped her gaze back to the château. To _France_. They were in a hallway of doors that seemed to have no beginning or end, rooms every twenty feet, numbered in gold lettering.

When the door opened and Hermione walked inside, she wanted to laugh.

‘This is ridiculous,’ she said breathlessly.

‘You’ll find a bathroom beside the closet room. Your bags will be in there already. Please feel free to take a walk about the grounds, or through the De Clare’s gallery. The evening’s entertainment will begin in three hours, with dinner served at eight.’ He looked at them expectantly. ‘Will there be anything else I can help you with?’

Malfoy replied for them: ‘Thank you, but no.’

The man nodded, hesitating at the door before he left. ‘The De Clare’s have asked me to notify guests that many parts of the château will be off limits, where obvious,’ he said. ‘There are refurbishments taking place on some wings, and others are kept locked for the privacy of the family. I’m sure you’ll understand.’

Hermione and Malfoy shared a look as the door clicked.

‘Refurbishments?’ she repeated.

‘At least we’ll have somewhere to start.’

‘I swear to god, if we find a three-headed dog in one of those rooms…’

Malfoy snorted. He sat down on one of the sofas in front of the lit fire. The fireplace alone was the size of a small house, marble and gold and decorated with carvings of magical creatures that Hermione struggled to recognise.

The room was layered with pillows and rugs and a piano forte in one corner. They had a dining table already set with crockery, and flowers and small busts and candles, and bowls of pristine, perfectly ripe fruit filled every surface.

The balcony overlooked the river, where small figures rowed about lazily in small wooden dory boats, parasols shielding them from the sun like they were living centuries ago.

And then there was the bed. High enough Hermione would need to jump on it, layered with pillows and embroidered cushions and throws stitched with gold and red. It looked suffocating and drowning, big enough to fit a family let alone two people.

Two people.

She glanced at Malfoy. He was wearing glasses, reading a book he’d slid from the bookcase beside the fireplace. They were black and square and made his eyes look impossibly bright.

She clasped her hands together behind her back, rocking on her heels. ‘Do you… want to go for a walk?’

‘I just portkeyed eight hundred miles, Granger,’ he said slowly. ‘On a hangover. I don’t want to do much right now but sit here and pretend to read and stay near a bathroom.’

‘You didn’t drink _that_ much.’

‘I’d had a few before I met you in Hogsmeade.’

‘Still.’

‘And more when I got back to my room.’

'You could take a potion.'

'I'd rather not end up sleeping through the whole evening, thanks.'

She fell into the empty armchair, feet crossed at the ankles on a small footstool. ‘Do I just start getting ready then? If you’re going to be so antisocial?’

‘Don’t hide in a bathroom for three hours, Granger,’ Malfoy said tiredly. ‘Go for a walk. I’m sure you’ll find something to interest you.’

‘I’m sure I will. Maybe I’ll even see Alec. Ask him a few questions.’

‘Off you go then.’ He stared at her, waiting.

She left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I just wanted to say thank you SO much for all the lovely comments lately. At last it's the weekend so I'll make sure I reply to them all over the next few days! Thank you all for your awesome support, and I'm so happy to hear how much you're enjoying this story. x


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late! I've just got back in from a day of sightseeing in Amsterdam and didn't have data to upload. :P Enjoy! x

Hermione went through hallways that looked exactly like the last, walked down staircases that led upwards. She meandered along the river, grass soft as wool, littered with daisies that she picked and put in her hair. Some of the rowers waved to her as she leaned over the river on a small stone bridge, though they couldn’t see her face, and she waved back, though she couldn’t see theirs.

The chateau loomed over her as she walked back, sun setting, moon already bright. It wasn’t streaked with pink and purple like she’d seen it in Hogsmeade the day before, and she could hardly understand how they had sat opposite one another only so many hours ago.

She knew she was running out of time. A bell pealed somewhere, but she couldn’t see a tower or church. Hermione wrapped her scarf in another loop around her neck and buttoned up her cloak, walking quickly back towards the entry. She slipped through the crowds of guests that were still arriving, some in their formalwear, others still in travelling clothing. Thestrals and carriages and broomsticks were being steered by footmen, and the sound of laughter echoed off the marble flooring.

‘Mademoiselle Granger?’

Hermione turned. It was the man who had shown them to their rooms. She realised she did not know his name.

‘ _Ca va_?’

Hermione nodded at him. He held a large, leather-bound book in his hands. Hermione wondered how many names were listed upon it. And how she could get her hands on it. ‘ _Ca va, merci, monsieur_.’

‘ _Voulez-vous que je vous motrer a votre chambre_?’

 _How considerate_ , she thought wryly. _Offering to steer me back personally to my rooms._

‘ _Ah. Non. Je pense que je sais aller le chemin. Merci_.’

He smiled again, a blank look that stopped Hermione from smiling back. ‘ _D’accord. Passez une bonne soirée._ ’

‘You too,’ she muttered.

She tried to remember the way back to the room, trusting the paintings on the walls and the colours of the painted mirror frames as she walked up the stairs.

Of course, she was unsurprised when she found herself down a hallway that was dark and smelled of dust and made her heart thrum in her veins. That slight panic that stuck in the back of a throat, like losing sight of a parent in a crowd.

Hermione traced her steps again, and sometimes she thought she could hear them following her as they echoed, like she wasn’t alone. She pulled her wand from the inside of her pocket.

‘ _Lumos_!’ she whispered. A bright light shot from the tip. Painted figures shied away from it, hands in front of their faces, but unlike the figures in Hogwarts, these were silent. Watching with small, dark eyes.

She turned another corner, and it took her a moment to realise that the walls were empty. The ceiling was bare, a complex of wooden rafters, absent of the gilded decoration that made her feel she was in a palace. She felt a breeze on her face. She heard the knocking again, like footsteps. But she was standing still.

Hermione swallowed. ‘Is anyone there?’ she called.

The knocking again. Like it was coming from behind a door. But the hallway was empty. And so maybe… It was coming from _in_ the walls.

She was being stupid. Ridiculous. But she reached out her hand. It was shaking. She rapped her knuckles against the stone. Short, hesitant knocks.

Waited.

Breathed.

Counted one, two, thr—

A knock.

Barely there, barely perceptible. But it was there.

‘What on earth…’ Hermione whispered. She pressed her cheek against the stone. She could hear nothing. Tried to convince herself that there was something there the way a child would think they held the Seven Seas in a shell.

‘ _Hermione_?’

She stumbled backwards, her name so loud, so close, was startling. Her heart jackhammered in her chest.

‘ _Alec_?’

His hands were on his hips, eyes and mouth parted in surprise and – _shock_.

‘You’re—What are you _doing_ _here_?’ he asked, shaking his head.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Hermione said. She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I got lost. This place – it’s so _big_.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s— It’s fine. Really. I just didn’t expect to see anyone up here.’ He was still blinking, like he couldn’t understand how she was there – how she was real. ‘Follow me. I’ll take you back to your room.’

Hermione let him lead the way. ‘You know which one I’m staying in? I thought you had hundreds of guests.’

‘I do. I make it a priority to know about them, though. Wouldn’t be a very good host otherwise, would I?’

‘I’m sure no one would mind,’ she murmured.

She found herself following him back onto the main staircase; it branched into so many directions that she found it amusing she could ever know the right way.

‘I heard something down that hallway, Alec,’ Hermione said.

He glanced at her. ‘Really? What did you hear?’

‘Someone was… knocking. Behind the wall. _In_ the wall.’

He coughed, like he was stifling a laugh. She thought she would have laughed too. ‘I… It gets quite drafty down that part of the house. My parents and I have been renovating it for years. I think I hear all sorts down there sometimes.’

‘Oh. I see.’ Hermione laughed at herself, an awkward sound that mad her grimace. ‘I sounded quite mad, didn’t I?’

‘We live in a very strange world with very strange people,’ Alec said simply, running a hand through his dark hair. He paused on the staircase to let a pair of children speed past him before continuing. ‘And that’s before I even consider that magic is a part of that world.’

They arrived at a door. It could have been any door. And yet he knew that it was hers.

‘This is you,’ Alec said. He smiled, and his dimples showed. He reached out and touched her hair. She remembered the daisies she’d put in them, like she was five.

‘This is me.’

He watched her, and they were both aware that she had yet to put the key in the door.

‘Happy birthday, Alec,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry I’d forgotten to say so earlier. I’m sorry for, um, needing a chaperone.’

He laughed. ‘Thank you. And you don’t need to apologise. It gave me a little break for a few minutes.’ He took a step backward. ‘Have a good night, Hermione. Hopefully we’ll get a dance.’

 

* * *

 

 

‘Granger, you’ve got five minutes or I’m leaving.’

‘That’s generous of you,’ Hermione called through the bathroom door. ‘I would have given you two.’

‘I can if you really want me to.’

Hermione yanked the door open. ‘Unnecessary,’ she said. ‘Do my back up?’

Malfoy was tying his suede shoes on the edge of the bed. He blinked up at her, but his hands kept moving around the laces.

The blue suit made him look startling. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. Some part of her knew he wouldn’t look as ridiculous as she wanted. Not in something that made him look like he was made of midnight and stars and earth – like he was the universe.

‘Beg your pardon?’

Hermione turned so she couldn’t look at him. ‘I can’t hold the bodice up properly if I tie it,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I lose the form of the dress.’

Malfoy sighed, pulling the laces on his shoes tight. He stood behind her, and his fingers darted over the flesh of her back. They were hot, but she thought her skin must have been cold.

‘Be gentle,’ she warned as he started yanking the laces, slipping them through the eyelets with fast precision so that he barely even touched her.

The dress tightened around her chest, and it seemed an eternity before he pulled the laces through the last few holes.

‘You sound like Pansy,’ Malfoy told her.

Hermione lowered her eyes as she turned. ‘I need to tell you something.’

‘Please tell me you haven’t taken Polyjuice Potion and I’ve been entertaining Pansy damned Parkinson all day.’

Hermione rolled her eyes, because his words weren’t harsh, and there might have been a lingering fondness in them. ‘Thankfully, no.’

‘You were saying?’

She tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. It fell predictably back into place. ‘I saw Alec earlier.’

‘In his own home? How bizarre.’

‘The sarcasm is wearing thin, Malfoy.’

He sat back on the bed, hands clasped, eyes open and unnervingly earnest. ‘That’s impossible. But continue.’

‘I got lost trying to find the room. _Accidentally_ ,’ she added with a pointed look. ‘I found a hallway. It was bare – no paintings, scratched flooring, rafters instead of the gilding. I thought it was strange, just this random dark part of the house. Like someone forgot to decorate it.’

‘Not impossible.’

‘I thought someone was following me – I could hear footsteps. But when I stopped… it was knocking. In the walls.’

‘ _In_ the walls?’

‘They knocked back when I did.’

Malfoy stared, and then leaned back slowly.

‘Alec was there,’ Hermione added. ‘He found me there. I don’t know how.’

‘Maybe he wasn’t looking for _you_. Maybe he was looking for someone else. Something else.’

‘But _what_?’

‘A room? Maybe someone lives there.’

‘There weren’t any doors.’

‘Who _knocks_ on _walls_?’ he asked. ‘Did you trying opening anything?’

‘Who tries to _open_ walls?’ Hermione countered.

He shook his head. ‘You could have told me earlier. I would have gone looking while you got ready.’

‘ _No_ ,’ Hermione said quickly. ‘We don’t split up. Not where we don’t know. That’s where the people in horror stories always made their mistakes.’

‘This isn’t a horror story,’ Malfoy said, pushing himself off the bed. Her shoes were heeled, but he still towered over her. ‘But we _are_ going to be late, and we’ve got a ball to go to.’

 

* * *

 

The banquet reminded her of the food in her first meeting with the exchequer. Excessive. Exotic. Emblematic of everything that already stood around her. Hermione felt like she shouldn’t have been there, waiting for someone to walk up to her, put an arm on her shoulder. Look at her with pitying eyes and ask her to leave.

The château was stuck in the eighteenth century. This was not a bad thing. The windows of the ballroom were open, long cream curtains drawn back so Hermione could see the moonlight glittering off the river. It wasn’t cold, though. A warm breeze filtered through the ballroom, the chandelier candlelight trapped in the thousands of crystals and diamond beads that hung from it. Everything was bathed in an amber glow like the sun was still radiant in a midnight dark sky.

Paintings were everywhere. Still life, mythic battles, landscapes so real they looked ready to be walked onto. Paintings of balls just like this one, dresses fabulous, women and men so beautiful that Hermione knew they could not be real.

They moved to the banqueting hall for dinner, a long room almost as opulent as the last, where two tables stretched the lengths of the hall big enough to serve three hundred guest. Windows ran along the back wall, huge and alcoved and crystal clear, so that they could see outwards across the stretching fields and the edges of the lake bordered by lanterns, swaying in a warm breeze as they hung in the air, and glinting like the fractured reflection from a fairy’s wings.

A young woman in a smart suit showed Hermione her seat. Malfoy was shown to the other table. She cast him a glance as they walked away, and he looked back at her.

A servant pulled her chair out for her, and Hermione stared at the table as she sat. Ten forks at each table place. Four glasses. Too many plates and bowls.

Alec made a short speech when everyone was seated. He smiled at the right moments, and knew when to pause. He held a champagne flute in his hand, held his other hand behind his back. He wore a black tailcoat with a startlingly white shirt; it made his eyes so dark they glittered and his hair was almost black in the dim light.

And then he sat down. The first course was brought out.

Alec smiled from opposite her.

‘Hello, again.’

She swallowed a mouthful of soup. Carrot and lemon and rosemary. An early hint of summer that blushed on her tongue.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘That was a nice speech.’

‘The least complex I think I’ve ever had to make.’

‘Your home is breathtaking, Alec,’ she told him.

‘Thank you. I come home rarely and still seem to find new parts to lose myself in.’

‘Like dark empty hallways?’

He grinned easily. It could have meant anything. ‘Like dark empty hallways.’

She glanced about her. ‘I don’t recognise many of these people. Are they all French?’

‘No. Kinglsey’s seated over there.’ Hermione turned and saw the Minister laughing at a joke a young man beside him had made. She hadn’t seen him laugh in so long. ‘Vivian and Philip are about twenty seats down to our right. I think Penelope should be behind us somewhere.’

‘All work and no play,’ a man warned beside Alec. His tuxedo was a deep emerald green, and his eyes were small and long-lashed and brilliantly blue. His hair was greying, but his age was impossible to place.

But Alec grinned, and patted him on the back. ‘That is why they are seated so far from me, Jacques,’ he whispered, leaning close like he was telling a secret.

And the man, Jacques, laughed, like he was included. Hermione thought that must have been one of Alec’s great skills – making someone feel special with a smile, a slight curve of a shoulder. A choice of words. Their own name. She’d seen Malfoy do the same, knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end.

‘ _Vous parlez francais, Mademoiselle Granger?_ ’ Jacques asked her.

Hermione nodded. ‘ _Oui. Mes parents et moi… Nous sommes vennus a France chaque été._ ’

She remembered those summers with her parents like they were trapped in a halcyon glow of sweet wine and warm bread and walks through endless fields of barley and along the towpaths of the Canal du Midi or curling up in an old Normand gite. Her heart panged. Her last summer was spent at Hogwarts, fighting beasts and destroying horcruxes. She hadn’t even realised that her parents had died. Hadn’t realised that she wouldn’t be able to go back and find them, have more summers in France.

‘ _C’est vrais?_ ’ Jacques paused. ‘I admit, we’ve heard very much about you this side of the pond, Miss Granger. But indeed, very few have mentioned that you are so beautiful.’

Alec wiped his mouth in his napkin. ‘I think if that was the first thing they mentioned, then that would hardly do Hermione’s genius any justice.’

‘Indeed,’ Jacques said. ‘But that _is_ what we have heard so much about. I’m thinking I would like to ask for a dance from you this evening, if you would be so kind?’

‘Of course,’ Hermione said. She leaned back as a waiter took away her empty bowl. In an instance, another dish was settled in front of her. Wafer thin slices of salmon scattered with dill and drizzled with a vibrant, mustard-yellow hollandaise sauce.

‘I’m afraid I have reserved her first dance, however,’ Alec said.

Jacques snuck a look at their host. ‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘Well, I feel most lucky to have asked for your second.’

Hermione touched the back of her neck, a wayward movement to stop her from thinking about how her skin might be flushing. ‘I think I should apologise in advance for any bruised toes.’

Someone laughed. ‘I’ve had a lifetime of making those apologies,’ said a woman to Hermione’s right. Her accent was not French, but Hermione struggled to place it. ‘I think we should all begin to expect it.’

Alec put a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. ‘Hermione, my mother. Mother, Hermione Granger.’

Hermione turned in her seat and held out a hand. ‘A pleasure, Mrs De Clare.’ She tried to look for Alec in the woman’s face. But her eyes were pale blue, her hair so blonde it was almost white, and there was almost nothing of her son in her. Her face was thin and lined, but not enough that she looked old. She wore diamonds around her neck, rubies as earrings. Her hands were dressed in white silk that slid against Hermione’s palm.  

‘Likewise.’

Alec was watching the exchange carefully, and she felt so conscious of his gaze on her. Some tiny part of her was too aware of his wealth and his good looks and his job and his home, and it was precisely all those conventionalities that made that small part of her want to prove something to him. Impress him. Impress his mother, who she spent almost the whole dinner speaking with, keeping up with her fast conversation and the movement of her blue eyes and the wit that seemed to roll of her tongue with remarkable ease.

Hermione offered it back. She was the genius of the Golden Trio, the smart one, the one that saved the day with her brain. But she didn’t feel like that now, in her dress, eating fine foods and remembering how to put her knife and fork together correctly and which glass to drink from, not jumping every time a waiter reached around her for a finished plate. Alec would laugh with those around him, occasionally stand and wander off to speak with guests at the other table, asking them how they were doing, but his eyes would always wander back to her, and Jacques would smile at her over the rim of his wineglass, and Astrid, Alec’s mother, seemed not to give her time to breathe.

It was, after all, as she came to realise, a trial.

 

* * *

 

 

‘You really do look beautiful tonight.’

‘Everyone does. You’ve made this a beautiful evening.’

Alec smiled, not looking at her, with some deep satisfaction.

He wore gloves, and it was strange not to feel the bare skin in the grip of her hand as they danced. When she’d danced with Krum, he’d been jerky and strong, grip a little too tight, jaw set with concentration as he tried to dance something that had no resonance with the dark roots he had come from. Ron, at Fleur’s and Bill’s wedding, was lanky and loose and he’d made her laugh but not made her feel warm and held.

Alec fell somewhere in the middle of them; impeccable, but too guiding, hand firm on her waist, mouth rarely loosening, eyes looking at her even less often. He had not realised that she was not the sort of person who wanted to be so easily led.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ he said, leading her into another turn. The orchestra were not playing too loudly, and his voice was quiet enough that she thought only she could hear his words and no one else. ‘How have you been finding things? At the Ministry? I know the atmosphere is not quite as… convivial as anyone would like, but…’

‘It’s been an experience,’ Hermione said thoughtfully, conscious of where she was putting her feet as they rose and fell around the room. ‘And I’m not bored.’

‘That’s something,’ he said, and something glittered in his dark eyes. Maybe it was the lights from the chandeliers above them. Maybe it wasn’t. ‘We couldn’t have Hermione Granger bored.’

‘You don’t have to say my name like that,’ she told him. ‘Like it means something.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘Not at all. It means no more or less than anyone else.’

The smile, still, curved around his lips. It wasn’t the quiet, secretive smile that Malfoy wore, if rarely. Alec’s was open, and brazen, but it didn’t tell her much. He had the kind of security of wearing a smile, exposed, without having to let anyone know what it meant.

‘You were saying,’ he said. ‘About the placement.’

‘The placement is turning out to be as much of a mystery as every school year of mine has been since.’

He glanced down at her. ‘You know you aren’t supposed to be trying to figure it out, don’t you? It isn’t something people like you and I should be meddling with. We should let the Aurors do their jobs.’

Hermione wondered what people like he and she were like. What did it mean for her to be something like him?

‘I thought you’d be the best person to find the culprit,’ Hermione said. ‘I thought you’d want to be _meddling_.’

‘And I thought you wanted nothing to do with any of it,’ he said. ‘I thought your interview was a lacklustre performance that reflected only how deeply disinterested you were?’

Hermione stumbled, but his grip was firm, and he kept her balanced. Kept her moving. She wondered if he anyone had noticed.

‘I was disinterested, but then I realised there was an opportunity to be had. I’m coming to wonder if I should regret that.’

He bent down low, and his lips brushed her ear. ‘You know, there’s an awfully big world outside of your little castle. You should stick with it, see where all of this leads.’

Hermione drew back, eyeing him, the silk of his gloves slipping in her hands. ‘I happen to like my little castle.’

‘But you also like opportunity,’ he said. His smile was a secret, and to taste it would probably be like tasting dark Morello cherries and the vodka she’d once drank on her sixteenth birthday. ‘I’m right, Hermione. Am I not?’

The way he said her name… It wasn’t like the struggling, tripping-over-the-syllables sound that Krum made it, or the awkward mispronunciation of Grawp. It sounded like the sigh that came from Ron’s lips as he lay in the Hospital Wing in fifth year, or the way—

She swallowed.

The way Malfoy had said it. The first time he’d said it.

And to think that Malfoy could say her own name and make her forget it was dirty dirty _wrong_. A self-betrayal so deep it made her feel nauseous and wounded. They’d been arguing when he said it, about the placement, and it was only afterwards, in one of those sinking moments after darkness, the atrophic aftermath, that she would remember the way it sounded.

‘You’re not wrong,’ Hermione eventually said, slow, unsure if she really meant it, knowing it was what he probably want to hear. He was beginning to seem like that sort of person. She couldn’t think about who he might have been, someone who smiled at her now and later led men on rampages that ended with dead Muggles and a burnt village. She had a part to play. If she could dress up as Bellatrix Lestrange and wear her clothes and use her wand, then she could pretend to be another version of herself.

Alec grinned, chin lifted, a triumphant sort of look as the orchestra finally slowed and he stepped away from her. ‘I’m not wrong. Now that’s something.’

 

* * *

  

‘I feel like her Patronus would be a white shark.’

‘And we will be forever left waiting to find out,’ Jacques murmured. ‘Alec’s wonderful mother is Muggle.’

Hermione tried to stop herself from stumbling.

‘Is that so?’ she said, trying to recover. To remember timing and footsteps that were so precise while her thoughts were jumbled and racing and trying to be sewn together.

Jacques smiled knowingly. ‘You’d never think so, would you?’

‘Alec’s father is pure-blood?’

‘ _Mais, oui_ ,’ he said. He looked away for a moment, putting his hands on her waist, lifting her with such ease, though he was not a tall or particularly large man. She caught a flash of blonde hair among the dancers, and felt a flash of disappointment – of being lost – as she realised she was held by a stranger again.

They didn’t talk about Alec again. Frankly, it would have been rude to talk so much of their host, but Hermione was conscious of Jacques’ shrewd eye and knowing smile. He couldn’t have known what she was thinking, or where her interests lay, but the man could guess enough.

She was dancing for hours, in the arms of men whose faces she forgot too quickly, and whose names she didn’t catch the first time it was whispered in her ear. There were a few women too, with red lips and quiet smiles that made her blush and laugh as they spun around the floor. Her feet ached and she could feel sweat running down the back of her neck. She’d drunk too much champagne and eaten more than she had in months. Everything smelled of flowers and perfume and musk and—

Ice.

Blonde hair and silver eyes and a gaze made of midnight.

‘Oh, thank god,’ Hermione sighed.

Malfoy put his hands on her forearms, like he was about to push her away.

‘No no. Don’t let go of me. Please.’

He looked down at her, then looked away, but he put his hand back on her waist. He kept his chin lifted and his eyes vague like something far out in the crowd was keeping his interest, but his grip was soft, and he kept glancing at her, and there was something impossibly… _safe_ about it. And he didn’t keep her at a careful distance like she thought he would, didn’t try to manoeuvre her at the orchestra played. He touched her like they were only link, two separate parts barely joined as they moved. She looked at him, the distant gaze, and wondered what he looked like when he was enraptured, when he was in awe. Maybe when he was in love.

‘I feel like I haven’t seen a familiar face in years,’ she told him.

‘A shame it had to be mine,’ Malfoy said.

She said nothing, not least because his self-deprecation was strange for her to hear.

He was a fluid dancer, seamless. He danced like he did everything, with such unnerving grace that Hermione felt only awkward and ridiculous with him. But she didn’t want to let go. Because it was more ridiculous that he felt like safety and predictable familiarity when everything was pressing in on her like too-tight jewels around her throat.

‘Relax,’ he muttered. ‘You’re a fine dancer.’

‘Fine is not good.’

‘Fine is _fine_ , Granger. Stop being so self-conscious. You’ll draw attention to yourself.’

‘You mean my awful dancing?’

‘ _Granger_ —’

‘I’m sorry.’ She bit her lip. ‘Alec isn’t the one.’

‘The... one?’ 

‘His mother’s Muggle. It’s not him.’

‘The Dark Lord’s father was Muggle. It means nothing.’

‘ _Voldemort_ did not sit opposite his father at dinner,’ she whispered harshly. ‘It could mean everything. This house… It’s insane. He lives in a palace, Malfoy. He could probably pay off every debt and fine the Ministry owes.’

‘So could my family, Granger. That doesn’t mean we should. We don’t owe the Ministry anything.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘You think we’d pull the Ministry out of its own mess?’

‘I meant that your family is that wealthy.’

‘We are one of the oldest families in Britain.’ He looked around the room with disdain. ‘We just don’t like to draw attention to ourselves in the same way. And you’re forgetting that if De Clare is who we thought he was, then it would explain how he’s funding this little celebration of his.’

Hermione considered this. She’d seen the looks people were passing Alec and his family. Full of curiosity and some with mild suspicion. Heard the whispered conversations that couldn’t _help_ but speculate. Because this sort of wealthy was impossible, wasn’t it? It was unnatural. It scared her.

She remembered visiting Versailles when she was fourteen. The skies had been blue, the gardens pristine and bursting with green. The interior had been breath-taking, but it had been a museum – with room enablers sitting in corners and ropes barring off doorways. The château felt like that – like she was sneaking past the ropes and taking photos with the flash on. Like she’d walked into the privately owned parts of a gallery, an intruder.

The song ended, and another began. The bows sped across the strings with sharp, swift movements.

‘Viennese Waltz,’ Malfoy told her.

She nodded, because she knew. Their arms extended and heads tilted back, posture straight. It was a torment of a dance, the way one turned constantly, trying to catch one another, trying to lean into the embrace, and then around again, and glances were fleeting and wild and feet so fast they _nearly_ stumbled. Nearly. But they carried one another across the floor until the amber glow streamed like sunlight and her heart ached against her ribs.

And the music stopped – so suddenly, and her hands moved to his shoulders, clinging, until her breath could catch up with itself.

‘That was good,’ she breathed. It was thrilling and rang of danger without the bloody nails and smell of death.

‘It was fine,’ he countered dryly.

She rolled her eyes, stepped away.

He was looking at her too carefully, head tilted slightly.

‘What?’ she said.

And he said, ‘Are you ready?’

‘For…?’

‘Our little adventure.’

Hermione blinked, then cast her eyes around the room. It was full of laughing and drinking and coy smiles and quiet touches. Alec was speaking with his mother; Jacques was dancing with another young woman. Kingsley and Vivian and Philip stood around a table looking far too sober for the company that swarmed around them.

‘Ready,’ she said.


	23. Chapter 23

They slipped from the ballroom under an allusion of drunkenness and too much closeness for anyone to stop them.

Servants sighed at them as they passed, arms around each other’s waist, leaning on each other for support. Hermione giggled into his shoulder, and Malfoy laughed.

They turned a corner, walked up a staircase. Stood apart in a blink, faces falling and muscles tightening.

Malfoy undid his tie and opened his top button, exposing a V of smooth, pale flesh that Hermione knew was not so smooth underneath. She slipped off her heels, charming them to fit into her clutch.

She held the hem of her dress up in her hand, conscious of the dust that it would collect as much as the sound it would make.

‘Where first?’ he asked, keeping his voice dull enough that the sound wouldn’t echo.

‘The hallway.’

 

* * *

 

It was easier to find the hallway a second time than to find their room. Malfoy walked carefully behind her. She could feel tension rising off him in waves as light faded behind them and they headed into the darkness. Their footsteps were suddenly so loud in the quiet.

She could feel the breeze on her skin again, brushing against her bare arms like someone’s cold breath.

Hermione held out a hand, and Malfoy paused behind her.

‘Listen,’ she said.

He listened.

Hermione held her breath. Prayed she hadn’t been going mad.

And it was there again.

Faint, like water dripping from a broken faucet.

The floorboards creaked as Malfoy walked over to the wall, pressed an ear against it, and then a hand. He gave a slight push, and Hermione stared as a crack formed in the plaster. It grew, spreading in a line, until a door appeared.

Hermione ignored the look he gave her. _I told you so_.

She watched as he pushed, fingers splayed against the door. Dust swarmed as it peeled away from the wall. Hermione peered over Malfoy’s shoulder, and into darkness.

‘Ladies first?’ Malfoy muttered, but he was already lighting his wand and stepping forward.

‘Wait,’ Hermione said quickly, a hand on the curve of his shoulder. She cast a Shield Charm in front of him, and the darkness wavered slightly as the magic settled.

She shuffled behind him as he walked further in, light swinging around the room.

Hermione squinted. She wasn’t sure what she thought she’d see, but she was sure it would be more than…

‘Nothing,’ Hermione said, looking around her. An empty room. Dust smothering the floor, bare walls and floorboards. A smell of rot and dank that cloyed at the back of her throat. But there wasn’t a single thing there – no tables or chairs or cabinets hidden beneath sheets. ‘But what…’

‘Look,’ Malfoy said.

She followed his voice, and it took her a moment to figure out what he stood next to.

‘It’s the wind,’ he said. A window hung open beside him, cold air whistling through, and a tree branch snaked through the gap. It knocked against the wall with each light gust. A tapping sound. Infuriatingly familiar.

‘No,’ Hermione said. She shook her head, stalking across to the window. She could see guests wandering about the grounds of Alec’s home, oblivious. Laughter bubbled up through the window, drunken and careless. It made Hermione angry. ‘No, this _can’t_ be it. There has to be something else. There _has_ to.’

Malfoy stared down. ‘This isn’t the time to be stubborn, Granger.’

‘I’m not giving up,’ she snapped.

He looked at her, face half lit beneath the moon, half left in darkness. His expression was unimpressed, able to capture his complete lack of enthusiasm for her whole being with one glance.

‘I didn’t say that. I suggest we simply move on. Find somewhere else.’

‘ _Where_? This place is too big. We don’t know anything about it.’ It was so late already, and their portkey left first thing in the morning. It had been like this with Harry – with Ron. Running around, time slipping away, trapped when that time ran out.

‘Don’t we?’ Malfoy asked. ‘I thought this entire part of the house was for guests.’

‘What’s your point?’

He gave her another dull look. ‘If these are guest quarters, the ground floor is taken up with dining and entertaining, then it’s not hard to hazard a guess where the private part of this bloody house is.’

Hermione gritted her teeth as they walked from the room. She cast a spell on the door so it lay seamlessly with the wall. The tapping followed them.

The ball had finished by the time they crossed to the other side of the house. Most wandered towards the guest quarters, but Hermione watched as a few went to the other side of the staircase, the opposite way from the entertaining halls.

They followed the group, noticing the jewels on the wrists, the stitching in the dinner jackets. The way they walked through room after room like it was their home. They talked loud and laughed louder, and never once thought to look back, even as they finally slipped into a room and shut the door.

‘Should we…?’

Malfoy shook his head. ‘We carry on going.’

And they did. Down never-ending hallways with never ending rooms. Studies with maps covering the walls and quietly rotating globes. Galleries of paintings and gorgeous statues that stretched and wandered around the room. Rooms filled with _things_. Was this Alec’s life? How did someone who lived in a place of such curiosities end up staring at checks and balances and spending one’s early career dealing with goblins?

Money, Hermione realised. His own home was steeped in wealth, and perhaps he could not detach himself from that in his work life either.

‘What’s that smell?’ Hermione asked as they neared the end of the other side of the house. Oil lamps sprung up with fire as they walked past, and Hermione stared into the darkness in front of them. There was a light under one of the doors.

Malfoy frowned. ‘Cigars,’ he said. He walked to the door in front of them, crouching down to look in the keyhole. Hermione did the same when they moved away. There were cigars and quickly emptying bottles of whiskey and leather that smelled of smoke. Men stood around the room, dinner jackets abandoned. Woman sat in armchairs that swallowed their frail frames whole.

‘I don’t recognise them,’ Hermione whispered.

‘But I do.’

Hermione looked at him in surprise. ‘You do? How?’

‘Because their names were on that census.’ His eyes met hers; the pupils swallowed his irises whole. ‘And they worked for the Dark Lord.’

 

* * *

 

‘They’re _Death Eaters_?’ Granger cried.

‘ _Quiet_ , Granger,’ Draco hissed, pulling her away from the door.

He watched her staring at the door a little down the hallway, shaking lightly. He knew what she was thinking. How she felt so stupid – and strangely powerless. That some _strangers_ could make her feel like this, after all she’d done. She’d faced trolls and giants and – and Aunt Bellatrix. These people had tumblers of amber and sat in shrouds of smoke, like veils. Hiding behind impermanent defences. Granger had a wand. She had _power_. She had him. And yet.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. 'The Ministry... they caught all the Death Eaters at large.’

‘The Ministry is corrupt, Granger.’ He paused. ‘And they’re not Death Eaters.’

‘But you said—‘

‘I said they worked for the Dark Lord. That doesn’t make them Death Eaters.’

Granger stared at him. ‘Forgive me, but isn’t that the sort of general title that goes along with working for him?’

‘They worked for him. They didn’t serve him. Most of them look... They’re from the French Ministry.’

She gaped at him.

‘He was looking for foreign support. He wasn’t stopping with Britain.’

‘The French _never_ supported him.’

‘Of course they fucking didn’t. Publically.’

He was baffled by her naivety sometimes. At times so ready to run into battle, feet tripping over themselves for the fight. And at others trying to see the best in the people whose throats she had her wand at.

Draco thought that maybe she didn’t know what she believed in – didn’t know what ‘good’ or ‘bad’ was because she hadn’t realised that the disparity, the labels, didn’t exist. So pumped full of Gryffindor martyrdom and self-sacrifice and blinded by the colour gold and examples of heroism that she didn’t know what to do when reality showed her something different. He thought she would have learned to understand that difference by now.

It was a moment before they heard the footsteps, light, tapping – not stopping.

Granger seemed to realise before him, because her eyes widened comically, and it was only the fear of discovery in her face that made his heart flutter slightly with nerves.

‘Fuck,’ he whispered.

It seemed that time, for the minute, had stopped, footsteps keeping tune like a metronome, and their expressions changed too many times for him to keep up with the silent conversation they were having, bodies stiff with tension and stuck between a frozen flight-or-fight. Mostly it was torn between Granger’s _What do we do?_ and his own sort of useless _Fuck if I know_. They could run, but this was the end of the hallway, and the footsteps were too close and what, really, was going to happen if someone caught them? Nothing, probably, but then the people on the other side of the door might grow curious at the voices and Draco tried to imagine what they’d do if they saw _him_ alone with _her_ and—

Really, he should have expected it.

It was really the sort of thoughtless, non-committal thing she would do if it meant survival.

Because eventually the shadow of a woman rounded a corner and Granger pressed against him until his back hit the wall and it was only when he felt her lips on his that he realised she had stepped forward and craned her neck, pressed a hand on his shoulder and another into his hair so his head fell forward and it was—

_Soft._

And distantly he thought only that kissing had never been quite like that before. A press of lips that seemed quiet, tongue against his mouth but not with any real pressure. Nothing invasive about it. Tentative but with enough weight to it that it had purpose and made the sound he made in his throat coloured with surprise because it felt like _her_. And he realised that he had his eyes closed and that _his_ hand was in her hair and it was probably going to take a fucking year to get out and his other hand was pressing against the base of her spine and she felt small beneath his palm. And their mouths moved because they had to be convincing didn’t they? Because he was cottoning on to the fact that this was fake. It felt real but it was fake. And they heard only the sound of someone clearing their throat with some slight embarrassment before the footsteps faded and a door opened and closed and they… still hadn’t stopped.

But they had to. Stop. Eventually. Because the ruse had worked.

And when they broke apart he thought only that he wished the kiss that had ever felt the most real to him hadn’t been a charade.

Her cheeks were pink and she was biting her lip because they were cherry-red and he saw the way her chest swelled as she breathed and he noticed that breathing was coming a little stunted to him too.

And he said, ‘Well.’ Hadn’t really wanted that to be the first thing that left his mouth after that.

And she said, ‘I’m sorry,’ and he thought that, more, he hadn’t wanted that to be the first thing that left _hers_. ‘It was all I could think of.’

He felt his heart do something strange, a sort of spasm.

‘Right,’ he said, hand brushing over his chest, trying to get it to leave. And then, ‘It worked.’

She kept looking at him, and then her eyes would flit away: to the floor, to the tapestried hallway that dipped into darkness, to the candelabras flickering light. And he wanted her to _look at him_ except he didn’t want to draw that immediacy to the situation.

The situation.

Of course.

Because they weren’t here for anything but to do what she’d always done with Potter and Weasley and he wondered if she’d had moments with them where that had been _all she could think of._

‘I’ll go in,’ Draco said.

The shocked expression slipped onto her face with amusing speed.

‘What? You _can’t_!’

‘Actually, I can,’ he said. He cleared his throat, rubbed absently at his lips. Still tasted the champagne from her tongue. He caught her following the movement. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper to show her. ‘Someone gave me this earlier. Dancing. I didn’t understand it until now.’

Her eyes skimmed the note. It was written in Runes. The ancient language couldn’t form full sentences with real syntax like modern languages could. They were like dreams and thoughts – flashes of meaning. Draco wasn’t surprised when Granger shook her head.

‘Puzzle, earth, and… end?’ she guessed.

‘Riddle, ground, and end,’ he said. ‘Tom Riddle. Ground floor. End rooms.’

‘That’s… that’s _ridiculous_. That’s nothing to go on _at all_. How would you know?’

‘Because enough of these messages were probably sent around for someone like me to make an educated guess.’

‘Or maybe someone knows we’re already looking, Malfoy.’

It was possible. But Draco didn’t think anyone would reach that conclusion. Hermione Granger and a Malfoy working together? Anyone in that room would have looked at the pair and assumed she was his ticket here. That he knew exactly who would be at the party, a small room shrouded in smoke. The thought didn’t sit well with him.

‘Granger. Go and watch some fireworks. Go back to the room. This is our best shot.’

‘I’m not leaving you,’ she said, with a fierceness that would have been touching to anyone else.

He gritted his teeth at the words. An image flashed in his head of the battle. The way she’d stood with Potter and Weasley, and he’d felt pathetic and weak, and she’d been… Indomitable. He wondered what it must be like to fight beside her.

But he knew what he’d have to say. And he realised he might lose the chance to ever find out.

‘Granger.’ He forced himself to look at her. He said, ‘They might offer me a job.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘A job?’ she said, head tilted. Merlin, how entirely, breathlessly innocent she was sometimes.

And he said, ‘Yes.’

He waited until it clicked. And when it did she took a step back. Like she was afraid – like she was _repulsed_. He was used to that look, but it didn’t make him satisfied anymore. It made him feel tired and disappointed, because he realised that he’d failed her in some strange way, and so he’d failed himself, too.

‘You should go,’ he said. ‘It’s not safe for someone like you.’

She bit her lip. Her skin was flushed from the alcohol. From… He swallowed, watched as her eyes welled.

‘I don’t understand,’ she admitted, voice thick. ‘I thought you’d – I thought we’d fixed that?’

He stared at her, at her brown eyes swimming in betrayal, at the dress he thought she looked so pretty in. ‘You remember, don’t you, Granger?’ he said, and he could not help the sad bitterness that crept into the words, into the smile he tried to force onto his face. ‘I’m a _being of opportunity_ , and there’s never been a better time.’

Draco thought she’d say something else. Do something else. But she stood there staring at him and crying and doing nothing but letting the tears fall silently down her cheeks. And then she turned, and she walked away. He wished he wasn’t so desperate to call her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... lmao. 
> 
> i'm sorry this is shorter than usual, there should have been another scene after but i looked at it this evening and realised it was unfinished. also the writing i did for this story starts to get a bit patchy at this stage, so please bear with me if uploads take a little longer than they have done in the past few weeks! <3


	24. Chapter 24

‘Draco Malfoy. How’s dear old dad?’

‘He’s well, thank you. Nearly served his time. Wiped the figurative slate clean.’

‘I don’t think anyone could ever get that much blood off their hands, Draco.’

He smiled through gritted teeth. ‘Azkaban’s been thorough,’ he said.

Orlena smiled behind the rim of her glass as she lifted it to her red-wine lips. ‘It always is.’

‘Fifth time, is it?’ Draco asked.

‘Third. Thank you.’

He shrugged. Once would be enough for anyone. Orlena’s husband had too much money and too many mistresses for her to stay out too long – or in.

The others were like Orlena, none quite so ostentatious. She wore rubies and used a cigarette holder and there was a faint shimmer about her that said she was glamoured.

He’d seen a few of them at dinner. They’d given him vague nods, raised a glass with an immutable sort of gesture. Most had let their eyes hover before their gazes fell past him and went around a room. But no doubt it was sort of thrilling for them to be graced with the presence of a _Malfoy._  

The conversation had fallen when he opened the door, took a tumbler of whiskey from a metal platter on high table. Waited for one of them to stand up, which they did, said, ‘Welcome, Draco Malfoy. We wondered if you’d join us.’

He was a tall man, thin and reedy with a thin moustache. He held himself like an orchestra conductor, moved with movements that were sharp and jerky one moment, long and smooth the next, like he wasn’t sure what kind of person he was supposed to present himself as. Draco wondered if that was because it was him, and he thought, as the evening wore on, that it probably was. Because who else in this room had spoken to the Dark Lord as he had? Who else had been so trusted within his circle? The men and women in the room might have been in contact, might have exchanged furtive letters and whispers through fireplaces, but none of them had been in a position that was simultaneously enviable and utterly detestable.

Ironically, it made Draco something of a celebrity among this furtive group, hidden behind cigar and cigarette smoke, watching with shrewd eyes that glinted in the low chandelier light, reflecting off the signet rings and the pearls around small throats.   

‘How have you liked the party, Draco Malfoy?’ one woman said. Her accent was thick and had the high, soft lilt of a Parisian. Her face was vaguely familiar, blonde, blue eyes set behind a pair of winged glasses. Draco thought he’d probably seen her in the _Prophet_ once or twice when the Minister went to the French Ministry.

‘De Clare’s outdone himself,’ Draco said mildly.

‘He has, hasn’t he?’ Orlena said. She was looking at the tips of her fingernails that were painted a glossy blood red. ‘But then we’d expect no less from dear Alec.’

Draco glanced about the room, the figures sprawled on the old leather sofas, the pair of men huddled by the fireplace, the group of women by liquor cabinet beside the window. ‘His absence is noticeable.’

The tall, thin man – had introduced himself as Hugo –  cleared his throat. ‘ _Dear_ Alec is not so in line with… Our principles.’

‘And yet he invited you?’ Draco said. ‘Lets you have a parlour in his house and drink his firewhiskey while he’s not here?’

‘He does not agree with our actions in the French _Ministère._ That does not mean he’s stupid.’

Draco took a seat in one of the empty armchairs, rested an ankle across his knee, glass glinting. He shouldn’t have been drinking. His head felt full, was starting to ache. The feel on his lips now was like the blush of something he might have felt in his sleep, sure that it had been real when he woke up, but not really.

He leaned back, looked at Hugo. ‘Then what does he agree with? Because other than a career in finances I’m… struggling to see where his interests lie.’

‘Careful with those sorts of questions, young Malfoy.’

Orlena’s smile was shark-like. Like his mother’s could be sometimes, but his mother’s was always shrewder. Always astoundingly smarter. Orlena’s, instead, was sharp with not much to show for it.   

‘Just being curious, dear Orlena,’ Draco said. He flashed her a smile that he’d reserved for his mother’s banquets. Reserved for the wives that used to come in their ball gowns and their daughters that used to come with bows in their hair. He could twist it, if he needed, to something genial and filial to the fathers, to something sly and sharing with the sons. It was a remarkably malleable thing, which it had to be – which he had to be – and he supposed it was a credit to his ability to his survival that it still worked.

He thought Orlena might have proven him wrong, but she didn’t. Because her smile deepened with some sort of satisfaction, an indulgent thing, and he caught when her eyes flashed to his fingers that were wrapped around the glass, to his eyes that someone had once called extraordinary.

Really, she was probably around twenty years older than him. Really, he’d had to pander to worse.

‘If I could tell you, I would.’

The blonde woman was frowning, pressed her glasses closer to her face with her fingertips on the edge of the lens.

‘Orlena,’ she said. Her voice a warning bell.

But Orlena shrugged, a graceful lift of her shoulders that carried with it the air of everything that hung thick and heavy in this palace of a house. She sucked on her cigarette, breathed it out in rings that perhaps he was supposed to be impressed by. Hugo and the blonde woman were holding themselves with a tension that made Draco wonder if perhaps he’d overlooked Orlena as some sort of force in that room. As some sort of power in France.

‘I gather you’re referring to the Kingsley’s money problem,’ Orlena said.

‘That’s a minimalist approach.’

‘Yes,’ Orlena said. ‘And it’s not… very _me_ , is it?’

‘I wouldn't say that.’

‘You’re charming,’ she said. ‘Like your father could be. Remarkable man.’

Draco swallowed, aware that they were not alone in the room together. That it would be easy to say something and forget that; for everything to slip into a dark periphery where all that was left were Orlena’s red-wine lips and her diamonds, everything hard and sharp that made him think only of how Hermione Granger was so soft.

‘You’ll understand if I’m not quite in the _mood_ to speak about the sort of man my father _could_ be.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘This is about our host.’

‘Who you said you know nothing of.’

Hugo sighed. ‘Let’s stop this rudeness, shall we?’

‘Rudeness?’ Orlena said, snorting. ‘No doubt our invitations were based on an assumption we would gather to talk about him. Because there is nothing like feeding a man’s ego than having a covert group of wizards and witches talking about him.’

Draco swallowed the rest of his whiskey, let it burn as it slid down the back of his throat. It probably said something that he would rather sit here than return to the room at that moment, but he stood up and brushed his suit down, left the empty glass on the table beside the armchair.

‘Leaving so soon?’ Hugo said. His mouth moved around a pipe as he lit his tobacco, words near unintelligible and garbled with his accent.

‘This evening has been illuminating,’ Draco said, buttoning up his jacket. ‘But I’ll be returning to London tomorrow and should go to bed.’

‘I forget you’re still a child,’ Orlena said. There was something sad about the words. Like she had lost hope, was seeing something fade from her future the longer she looked at him. Draco was glad for this, so he did not deny it.

‘Have a good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, plastered a smile that was polite and excusing on his face. Granger once told him that he didn’t smile often enough, but she didn’t really realise that in fact he had many different smiles, and they were all for different reasons, and that to let her see one was probably because he wanted something. He didn’t like to think that something like that could not be natural between them, and found it even stranger that he wanted things to be natural between them. Breathless and thoughtless.

‘Oh, Draco?’

He paused at the door, where the smoke was thinner here and not so cloying, when he looked back it swirled around them all like ghosts.

It was the blonde woman who’d spoken – hadn’t given up her name.

‘Be careful with that Muggleborn of yours,’ she said. ‘Alec De Clare might not have those sort of principles, but don’t forget that we do.’

Draco didn’t even bother to tell her that he didn’t give a fuck what their principles were, when he no longer shared them.

 

* * *

 

‘You’ve got some fucking guts, Draco Malfoy.’

Not unsurprisingly, she was glaring at him. Surprisingly, she was in her pyjamas, sat in the middle of the bed, lamp seeping out yellow light, a book in her lap. She looked remarkably normal.

‘Granger.’

‘Get out, Malfoy. Looking at you disgusts me.’

The words might have hurt him if his headache wasn’t already pounding. If he knew that the words couldn’t really be true when everything about this whole _thing_ wasn’t true.

‘Grow up, Granger,’ he muttered. Moved into the room, to the suede duffel bag that hung over the back of one of the dining chairs.

She gaped. ‘I _beg._ Your pardon.’

He pulled off his jacket, yanked the silver cuff links from the his shirt. His tie was strewn on the floor somewhere. He said, yanking the tail ends of his shirt from his trouser waistline. ‘You can’t make a choice when you’re only going one way, Granger. What a fucking disappointment.’

There was silence. For a moment. And then she said, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He span. ‘You’re so fucking _blind_ sometimes!’ he shouted, hands up in the air. ‘You wanted to think I was a fucking Death Eater and so you did! You didn’t even think – even _consider_ the possibility that I might have been something else – been _someone_ else.’

The words hung in the air, and he watched her face like it was a kaleidoscope, rearranging itself, every tiny, fleeting thought splayed out for him to see. Not like he understood what he meant. Nothing other than the base thoughts: the anger (in the flare of her nose), the shock (the ‘o’ of her mouth), the disbelief (the shake of her head). But the rest of it, the way her head tilted, lips pressed together, eyebrows drawn together. And that, that could mean anything.

‘You can’t be serious,’ she said eventually because it seemed, at last, that she heard what he was trying to tell her. Even with this, couldn’t just tell her straight out, because where was the fun – the challenge in that?

‘You’re angry with me – _accusing_ me because I didn’t believe what you _told_ me?’ At this, Draco looked away. She’d thrown back the covers now, climbed to her feet so she stood at the end of the bed, arms folded across herself. She looked small, and was near enough that he might have reached out and touched her if he’d wanted to. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she breathed.

‘I’m just saying—’

 

* * *

 

Hermione glared at him. ‘No. No, you don’t _get_ to do that to me. To say I’m a bad person for believing in you and being upset when you turn out not to be. When you’ve started putting _your_ trust in _me_ and led me to believe what you tell me, and then get angry when I can’t tell when what you say is all a lie.’ Hermione swallowed. ‘That’s not what this is,’ she said.

‘Then what is it exactly, Granger? What is this _thing_ that we have?’

‘What are you talking about?’

He took a step towards her. ‘You kissed me,’ he said, and she felt her heart throb. Couldn’t believe that he’d actually said it.

And suddenly she could feel the touch of his fingertips on her neck, the air he breathed into her mouth. Lashes caught in hers. Lips on her lips. It had felt like everything she thought it would, open to everything that was sensory and tangible, and everything that was more.

But it had been with him, and she wondered if that was enough, and why it wasn’t, and what it said about her not to think so.

‘Don’t tell me what you’re thinking,’ he said.

‘Malfoy—’

‘Don’t, Granger.’

‘Look, if it meant something to you then—’

‘ _Fuck. You_.’

‘Malfoy—’

‘ _No_. Fuck you and your _meant somethings_. Fuck you and your self-validations and that things are only important if they’re important to _you_.’

‘Malfoy I’m allowed to not be invested in something,’ she argued. ‘I did that—’ _Kissed you._ ‘—because it was a distraction. Because it got us into that hallway. It got you into that room, okay? It was – it was a payment to enquiring mind and watching eyes. You _knew_ that. You _knew_ it couldn’t be more.

‘I fucking _couldn’t_ know that Granger! Because if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from you it’s that you mean what you do! You have – you have fucking cause and purpose. You do things because they’re so disgustingly _good_.’

‘That’s bullshit. I do things because they get me what I need. Where I need. Because I have to.’

‘ _No_ ,’ he said slowly. Darkly wry. A smile at the side of his mouth that held no humour and maybe even something sad. ‘Because that would make you like _me_. You don’t do anything you don’t have to do. That’s what makes you you. That’s why I kissed you back.’

He stomach dropped a little.

It shouldn’t have.

His words were supposed to make her feel nothing – make her confused, or unwell at the sound of them on _his_ lips.

But they didn’t. Because she knew what those lips felt like against hers. She knew what his bed felt like to lie on. She knew how much he cared for his mother and father and, strangely, how much the Malfoy’s could love a child.

She understood his humour – sometimes shared it. Shared more with him than any other person in the past eight months. As much as she had done with Harry and Ron. Maybe more.

Didn’t want to admit it, but she waited for him in the evenings to appear in the common room. Told herself his company was better than being alone, and knew that she’d rather be alone if she couldn’t be with him.

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

‘You know what I’m thinking,’ she said. ‘You always know what I’m thinking.’

He looked at her, bafflement taking over his anger.

‘I _never_ know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘You’re – you’re so easy to rile up – so quick to snap – but I have never been _remotely_ close to understanding what goes on in your head. To understanding you.’

She stared at him. ‘You give me that look, though,’ she said. ‘You just stare at me when I say things, and it makes me feel so vulnerable and bare and I feel like – like I’m worth so little to you. To anyone.’

He ran his hand through his hair, a unhurried movement so peculiarly uncomposed that she felt herself staring.

‘I look at you like that because you’re so baffling and I seem to spend a lifetime figuring you out,’ he admitted. ‘Trying to figure you out.’ He shut his eyes too long for it to be a blink, like he had to look away from everything for a while. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you. Not even in… _that_ way. I just – you are the most, interesting, distracting thing in my world right now and I can’t _stand_ that. And I can’t stand that I’me even telling you this right now. I can’t fucking believe I’m telling you this.’

He looked at her for so long, like he was waiting for her to say something, and desperately hoping she wouldn’t.

And she didn’t.

And he walked away.

‘Malfoy, wait,’ she said.

But she didn’t know what to say. What did anyone say to someone like that? Someone whom you’d loathed for eight years? Someone whom you’d only really known for eight months? She didn’t know.

And it wasn’t that she would have to say no or give him some sort or response that was only denial and rejection. Because she heard his words – listened to them. Felt his frustration and his self-loathing and it only made her feel worse. Because he hated himself for liking _her_ – maybe for wanting her. And she knew, because maybe she _was_ rational with love and everything that came with it – that maybe a part of her liked him too. Too long spent waiting for his words and opinions. Too long spent fascinated by his movements. Too many fast, _quick quick_ heartbeats at his dark looks through bright eyes. But, because she was rational, she heard his self-disgust, and was conscious that, despite everything, he still only saw her as a—

‘ _Mudblood_.’

He turned to her, startled, because it was a word, for once, on her tongue. With the kind of venom that he used to use on her.

‘That’s all I am to you still, aren’t I?’ she said. ‘You can’t stand the fact that the blood – the genes I have – are not the same as yours. And you hate that you might feel something for me – that you want to kiss me back – because I’m still a girl you used to hate with dirty blood.’

‘That is _not_ what this is about, Granger.’

‘We can’t even call each other by our own _names_ , for Merlin’s _sake_!’ she cried, exasperated. ‘There’s a barrier between us because you can’t face that I’m someone who _might_ just be on your level. You can’t face that I might be someone who could possibly be good enough for you.’

‘That is _bullshit_ ,’ he spat. ‘If there’s one thing you’re good at, Granger, it’s scrabbling for broken pieces to form some shitty argument so you don’t have to face what you’re feeling – so you don’t have to acknowledge that you might actually like someone who’s not in that perfectly regimented box you always dreamt of. Now, I’m _sorry_ that I’m not hopelessly stupid and hopelessly acquiescent like Weasley—’

‘How _dare_ you—’

‘How dare _I_? _How dare_ _you_!’ he shouted. ‘The fact that you still think I’m like every other Death Eater suggests that only one of us has changed! I’ll give you two guesses who.’

Hermione shook her head. ‘You’ve been taught for almost nineteen years how to think, Malfoy. You’re not going to change in eight months. Nothing’s that transformative.’

‘You are,’ he said quietly. ‘Won’t you accept that you are that kind of person? That you have that kind of ability?’ You influence people, Granger. Potter might have had stories to tell, but you were the one that told them – that got people to listen and to do something. You had that power to influence. You are one of the most … lacking in self-perspective people that I’ve ever met. You don’t _see_ yourself. And you _should_. I do.’

Hermione sat down on the bed. ‘I can’t do this,’ she said.

He looked at her incredulously. ‘You _cannot_ just pretend this hasn’t happened.’

‘I’m not. I’m tired. I don’t want to talk anymore. These days have felt like an eternity and I need time to think.’

‘And come back with some sort of speech with what you’re going to say to me?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want that, Granger. I want your impulse thoughts. To know what you’d say when you _don’t_ have time to think.’

‘I don’t do that, Malfoy.’

‘Act on impulse? Bullshit.’

‘Maybe,’ she admitted. ‘But not now. I don’t know what I want.’

‘What you _want_?’ he said. ‘I haven’t offered you anything. I’ve just laid my cards out on the table. I just wanted you to do the same. I wanted the fucking truth. Maybe I thought you might have been able to handle that, but I guess not.’

Hermione didn’t say anything more to that – knew there was nothing she wanted to, and thought maybe there was nothing at all _to_ say.

So she stayed silent, and only when he walked from the room did she remember how to breathe.


	25. Chapter 25

Draco walked. He walked until the dawn, already misty and grey, had been broken by the sunrise. Walked until it started setting again, until it slipped behind the earth and pulled the stars up with its leaving. It was a mild evening, birds humming, grass damp. His breath swam around him like a soul.

He put his blazer on the grass. The lights of the chateau swam in the distance, darkness swallowing the rest of the building whole.

He watched them flicker as he sat down, palms turning green, legs outstretched.

Her face stayed in his head the whole time. The way she glared at him. The way she stared at him, so baffled, and let something flicker in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t watching.

It made him ache to stand there and shout and listen to her accusations when he could have kissed her again instead. Kissed her knowing that she might have fallen silent and leaned into him.

Draco sighed. He’d thought about her words – about his own. He couldn’t accept that they were true. That his inhibitions lay in the purity of her blood. That, frankly, was bullshit.

His _inhibitions_ lay in the blood soaking into his floorboards. They lay in the way her screams had rung with Bella’s laughter and echoed in his head for weeks after. They lay in him – his error. His actions, lack thereof. His guilt.

‘Draco Malfoy?’

He looked up from his loosely linked hands, thumb running over his signet ring.

Stared at Alec De Clare, waiting.

‘Thought I recognised that pale head of hair.’ He paused. 'I thought you would have left.’

‘I’m waiting for Granger. She lost an earring. I thought I’d get out of her way.’

‘Ah,, Hermione. Yes. I hope she enjoyed her evening last night,’ he said. Draco wasn’t sure he liked how he said her name.

‘And yourself?’

‘It was an enjoyable evening.’

De Clare managed to smile at him with only his eyes, and it was not a pleasant smile. Draco had worn it himself so many times before.

‘Lucius and Narcissa taught you well, didn’t they?’

‘One mustn’t be rude to the birthday boy,’ Draco said.

‘No, one mustn’t.’

Draco clenched his jaw. He rose to his feet, brushing the grass from his blazer. It would be stained in the morning.

‘What do you want?’ he said.

De Clare blinked at him. Like he was genuinely surprised. ‘What do I _want_?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want anything. I just thought I’d give you some friendly advice before you left.’

‘And what is that, exactly?’

He said, evenly, ‘It’s dangerous to go looking for things where you don’t belong.’

‘I know exactly where I belong.’

‘Oh?’ De Clare said. ‘I know you spoke with Orlena.’

‘I spoke with many people last night. You had an awfully large guest list.’

‘You and I both know that Hermione is not a free pass into society for you. You lack the… drive you used to for _that_ to be your goal. If you ever had it at all.’

‘And you’d know all about that, would you? You never took the mark. Your family were never sworn.’

‘No, we weren’t. Handy that, wasn’t it? Only… my family did it a bit better than yours, didn’t we? Backed the right politicians, spoke to the right people. Like you,’ he said. ‘Voldemort knew my family had fingers in a lot of pies. Knew my mother was Muggle. But he didn’t really care about them, did he? Scapegoats and excuses. And my parents didn’t mind sending an owl across the Channel every once in a while if it was needed.’

‘Why trust you? Why trust a foreign family with no connection to him?’

De Clare smiled, mouth wide. He leaned forward slightly. He said, ‘Because he couldn’t trust _you_.’

Draco rolled his eyes, unimpressed at the man’s attempts to speak to him like he was telling him a secret – letting him in on something he already knew.

‘The Dark Lord didn’t trust anyone,’ Draco said. ‘I don’t think he even trusted himself.’

‘I think you’re right there,’ De Clare said. His voice was dull, somehow swallowed up by the dark, by the dampening ground. ‘But he had faith in a wizard’s ability to not fail him.’ He looked at Draco steadily. The light of the house flicker like pinpricks in his dark eyes. ‘Does she know, by the way?’ 

‘Know what?’ he asked carefully.

De Clare snorted. ‘I’ll take that as a no. Being coy doesn’t suit you, Draco Malfoy.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Well it’s my house and grounds, so I think I’ll be the one to say that to you, _non_?’

‘You don’t know anything.’

‘You’re right – I don’t. I don’t even know if you did it yourself. Didn’t pass it off onto someone else for them to do your dirty work. Wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘Shut your fucking mouth.’

De Clare narrowed his eyes. ‘Didn’t take long for that polite veneer to slip away did it, Draco Malfoy?’

‘You tell me what the fuck you want,’ Draco said, steadily, lowly, ‘or I’ll peel the flesh from your back so I wrap my hand around your spine.’

‘I don’t get _threatened_ , Draco Malfoy,’ De Clare said lowly. ‘No matter how weak they are. And I don’t want anything. I’m just giving you a warning to _back_. _Off_.’

‘Is it you, then? Leading your merry band of little helpers?’

‘I’m not answering any accusations you throw at me. They’re groundless and pathetic and they seem only to reflect one thing.’

‘Not answering or not denying? Because that seems to reflect something too.’

‘You like twisting words, don’t you?’

His words made Draco pause. He remembered haring them so closely on someone else’s tongue.

‘When they can be,’ Draco said at last. ‘When they should be.’

And, he knew, words could always be twisted.

De Clare gave him a considering look, weighing something up. Pausing for once before deciding what to say.

‘The other side doesn’t suit you,’ he said. His ton was closing – they that that he was finishing this conversation. That he had some ownership over the words that weren’t allowed to be spoken.

But Draco couldn’t let that. Granger did the same, but sometimes he let her, and h thought that sometimes she must have let him, too.

So he said, before he left, so conscious of De Clare’s stare biting into the back of his head as he walked away, ‘There aren’t sides. There never were. But I’d hate to be on the same one as you.’

 

* * *

 

‘Finally!’ Granger cried as Draco walked back through the door.

The halls had been empty, and he had been too conscious of the echo of his own footsteps. It wasn’t strange to lose that blanket of security he’d always hidden behind. Bellatrix’s sharp, wickedly funny tongue. His father’s cane. The Dark Lord’s appraising eye. He wasn’t sure if he didn’t miss it, even when he knew he shouldn’t.

‘I’ve been waiting _hours_. Where on earth have you _been_?’

Draco looked around the room. The bed had been made, his clothes folded in his holdall. The room was as pristine as they’d first found it.

‘Compulsive cleaning?’ he asked. It was easy to click back into normal conversation with her. Too easy. But he looked at her and wanted to touch her flushed face, lips ruby red. He clenched his fists.

‘What else was I supposed to do?’ she countered. She unfolded her arms and stood up from the bed. ‘Get your bag. McGonagall will send Aurors here if we’re not back soon.’

‘Merlin forbid,’ Draco muttered, pulling his bag from the floor.

Granger picked up hers. She walked to the portkey, a jewelled bowl on the table, back turned to him. She paused. The bowl was brilliantly blue, speckled and pieced together like a tortoise shell. It shone like it was burning under the candle-lit chandelier above the table.

‘Where did you go?’ Granger asked quietly.

‘For a walk.’

‘For five hours?’

‘I ran into De Clare.’

She let out a shallow breath. ‘Of course you did.’

Draco rolled his eyes. He crouched down, looked beneath the bed.

‘I checked,’ Granger said. ‘I checked everywhere. We’ve got everything. What did you say to him?’

He dusted his trousers down. ‘Nothing.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘Maybe you should have asked what he said to me and I would have told you.’

She narrowed her eyes at him, brown irises swimming, glittering. They were a constellation of their own. He wanted to tilt her head back, look at them under a lens. See if he could see some sort of spark in them that would help him understand her. Understand himself.

‘Don’t be a child,’ she said.

He bit the inside of his cheek. Angered. Amused. ‘Give me a minute to grow up, then?’

‘What did he say to you?’

‘He was giving me a warning.’

She titled her head, brown curls brushing her neck. He watched them fall. Stared at her pale throat. He wondered when he’d first started watching her, fascinated by her – everything about her. He didn’t used to be.

‘Malfoy?’ she said. He blinked. ‘What did he say?’

‘He said to back off. To stop looking. To stop digging.’

She rubbed her forehead. ‘So he knows?’

‘Of course he does. He’s exactly who we thought he was so _of course he knows_.’

‘Everything?’

Draco paused. ‘Maybe not. The French lot last night knew fuck all about him. If they did they would have bragged. And whether he is who we thought he was—’

‘But you just said—’

‘Oh, he’s one of us.’ He swallowed, shut his eyes for a second. He hadn’t meant to say that – he didn’t _mean_ it. ‘He’s a Death Eater,' he corrected himself. 'But I don’t know if he’s _entirely_ who we thought he was.’

He was struggling to explain himself fully. His tongue felt too big for his mouth and his throat was cloying. She stared at him and seemed to get that, but he didn’t know why the words weren’t coming out right, and why they weren’t appearing in his mind right. She seemed to get that when he didn’t.

Maybe she thought he was afraid of De Clare.

Maybe he was.

She said, for him: ‘If he’s leading the movement?’

‘Yes.’

She nodded to herself. ‘We should go. We’ve wasted enough time.’

He nodded, too, and walked over to the table. ‘On three?’

On three, they put their hands on the bowl. He felt that sharp tug at his navel that always felt like something else, and soon they were swallowed into a whirl of darkness before the castle grounds fell down to reach them.

 

* * *

 

He remembered the last time he’d travelled by Portkey. Before France. He’d barely healed from claws ripping through his torso, and his skin had peeled open again. His mother had looked at him and screamed when he stumbled into the entryway, and it was only then that he remembered his shirt had been white and not red, and travelling that way really wasn’t supposed to hurt that much, was it?

This time was painless. He landed on his back, a hard thud into the ground, head hitting against the ground, and _of course_  Granger landed on top of him with a sharp breath.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, scrambling off him. He was grateful it was too dark for her to see his expression. ‘I’ve never... been very good at Portkey travel.’

Draco sighed and picked himself off the floor, shouldering their bags as Granger brushed herself down. Like she could get the grass stains out and the mud on her jeans with a brush of her hands.

‘At least you didn’t throw up on me,’ he said.

‘That was _once_ ,’ Granger said. He imagined her marching after him, face determined, and when he glanced at her over his shoulder the matching expression made him want to laugh. ‘And I was drunk.’

‘That doesn’t exactly absolve your responsibility, you know.’

Her response was unintelligible. 

They were at the greenhouses, and they slipped through the side doors, humid air pressing down on them and chasing away the chill air. The sound of leaves and quiet snapping was loud in the hush.

‘I feel like we’re sneaking around,’ Hermione whispered.

‘Why are you whispering?’ Draco said, but he found he was whispering too.

There was something strange about quietness – about the silence of night. Like they were intruding, and weren’t meant to be there. Like someone was watching and waiting for them to leave – prepared to make them if they wouldn’t.

They left the greenhouses, the Bell Towers deafening as they passed between them to the ground floor corridor. It was a quarter to midnight.

When they got to the portrait the lion stared at them. The snake was waiting. They seemed to be expectant.

‘Professor McGonagall has been informed of your return, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger,’ the lion said. The voice was deep and gravelly, like stone blocks rubbing together.

‘Wonderful,’ Draco muttered.

There was no one in the common room, but embers still flickered from the fireplace. He put their bags against the side table by the door, where Granger had stood once and told him about her breakup with Weasley. That felt like years ago, and yet only like last week.

‘So what do we do now?’ Granger said. She grabbed a clean glass from one of the cabinets in the corner of the room and filled it with water. He thought it was as much to do with thirst as it was to do with occupying her hands.

Draco raised an eyebrow. ‘You had something in mind other than sleeping?’

‘I _meant_ ,’ she growled, ‘what do we do about Alec?’

‘We do nothing,’ he said simply.

‘We can’t do nothing. _I_ can’t do nothing.’

‘We do nothing, Granger. We go to bed and get some sleep. We revise for our _exams_. We see what happens.’

‘And let him raise an army?’ she said. Her voice shook – he knew she saw newspaper headlines and heard wireless reports as she said it. Saw the flashes of green like she was running through the castle grounds again. Saw the creeping grin spread as it leaned over her and _breathed_ on her. ‘This country doesn’t have the resources to defend itself from much anymore.’

‘We see what happens, Granger,’ he said firmly. He wanted to shake her – make her realise that this wasn’t something she could deal with on her own. She was powerful; she was a genius. But she couldn’t face a hundred other wizards. ‘You need to get over this complex you have. It doesn’t suit you, and it didn’t suit Potter, either.’

‘It’s not a complex, Malfoy. It’s called not being a coward.’

‘No, it’s called not being a suicidal _idiot_.’

‘I’m not suicidal—‘

‘No?’ he interrupted. ‘Then why are you so intent on taking on something that is so much _bigger_ than you? Because it’s not for glory, Granger. It’s not for letters after your name. But if it’s not that then what else are you calling this manic rush to danger?’

‘It’s because I care, Malfoy. Because I saw what the war did to people. It tore people apart – tore families apart. We can’t have that again. We can’t live in fear.’

It was too easy to hear the ‘I’ in the place of her ‘we’, and he felt so _sad_ for her, in a way that made his bones ache and like if he blinked hard enough he might actually feel a tear fall. It was strange, and it was too much.

Draco shook his head. ‘I’m going to bed. I can’t keep doing this, Granger.’

But she smiled at him – a small, wry thing, and said, ‘What is _this_ , Malfoy?’

He thought about the powers at hand, about how nothing, really, was happening. Because nothing could. Because all the powers were really doing at the moment – the Ministry, the false Death Eaters - were cancelling each other out. Both strong. Both not strong enough. Neither, really, capable of winning this tug-of-war.

He thought, distantly, about how apt it was.

‘I believe,’ he said tiredly, ‘that the Greeks would have called it stasis.'


	26. Chapter 26

It was hard to revise when figures swam about in your head like a blur, or when symbols and ancient words lost their meaning – lost any resonance with what you thought you knew. It was hard when Hermione still had to go the Ministry every week and look Alec in the eye with a smile when she knew that Vivian’s hair had started falling out, and Kingsley looked older every week.

It was hard to revise for exams when Draco was quiet and distant and seemed to watch her but not look at her, when she was so aware of him that she found herself looking for _him_ in brief glances. It was hard when the frames were being put up for stalls and signs were being painted and fairy lights hung across a part of the school grounds, and Hermione found her heart entirely unmoved by it.

But mostly it was hard when Harry and Ron would smile at her across a table in the Three Broomsticks while everyone else had their heads stuck into a copy of the _Prophet_ that said a few more had gone missing – a few more dead – a few more hundred sighted in their dark hoards.

‘How does it feel to know you’ll be Aurors in two months?’ she asked them. The sky was grey – the walk to Hogsmeade had felt dreary. Summer had never felt so far away. Her heart had beaten too hard in her chest for the slow steps she had taken, and she wasn’t sure why.

‘A bit weird,’ Ron said. ‘But it feels like we’ve done enough to deserve it. This month’s been kind of hard.’

Harry nodded at this, and drank the rest of his butterbeer. He wiped at his mouth with his rolled-up sleeve.

‘How so?’ she asked.

‘It’s just been a bit too familiar,’ Ron said. ‘A bit dark.’

A bit. Kind of. He was so hesitant with his words – so careful not to put too much force into them. They told her everything she’d been wondering: how much they knew; how much the department were letting them get involved with the movement. And it seemed like it was a lot.

‘Do you know who it is?’ she asked. ‘Do you have any suspects?’

Harry looked strangely at her, while Ron scratched his nose. ‘Suspects for what?’

‘I’m not stupid, Ronald,’ she murmured. ‘I know they’re making you investigate the new Death Eaters. The Ministry could probably do with all the help it can get.’

‘Hermione, we… We can’t, er….’

‘You can’t tell me anything,’ she surmised.

Ron just shrugged. He stood up and headed to the bar.

When Ron was far enough away Harry looked at her with a closed expression. His mouth was tight, green eyes narrowed at the corners behind his glasses. ‘What have you been up to, Hermione?’ he asked her quietly, with an evenness that was a little unnerving, a reminder of the kind of person he had had to become. 

‘What do you mean?’

‘ _I’m_ not stupid,’ Harry said, echoing her earlier words. ‘What have you been getting yourself involved with?’

‘ _Nothing_. You honestly think I have time to do anything like that anymore? Like I’d throw away my last chance at passing my exams?’

‘Honestly, Hermione? Yeah. I would.’

She breathed in slowly. He was too suspicious. But she hadn’t been careful enough. She knew that now, hearing her questions fired back at her. How blunt they were. How open for scrutiny.

‘What do you know about Alec de Clare?’

A beat of silence.

Harry leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath his frame as he crossed his arms. They were bigger, corded with tight muscle and flecked with dark hairs. It scared her a little how grown up he seemed, and then Hermione remembered that she would be twenty that year. A year younger than Harry’s parents had been when they died.

‘You need to back off, Hermione,’ Harry said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘You’re the second person to say that. And the first person was Alec.’

‘I mean it. I don’t mean it as a friend – I mean it as an Auror.’

‘You’ve got two months before you can call yourself that.’

‘Hermione, for god’s _sake_. We’re not playing anymore.’

She scoffed. ‘What? And Voldemort was just a playground bully that liked to pull on girls’ pigtails? Are you kidding me?’

‘Hermione, I can’t – I don’t know enough. I can’t protect you if something goes wrong—’

‘I can protect myself, Harry,’ Hermione reminded him. ‘But if you tell me what you _do_ know then maybe I’ll stand a better chance—’

‘You’re not _going_ to stand a better chance because you’re not _going_ to stand against _anyone_ —’

‘You can’t stop me from getting involved, Harry—’

‘I _can_ and I _will_ —’

‘I am _not_ a _child_ —’

‘ _Then stop acting like one_!’

The sound in the pub quietened for a moment. Just for a moment. But it was enough to make something prick behind Hermione’s eyes and for her skin to flush. He’d shouted at her like – like a child. It wasn’t his voice or his words, though. It was the narrowed eyes, the palms flat on the table, the way he leaned forward and seemed so much bigger than he used to – the way he made her feel like one.

He leaned back, dragged a hand through his dark hair with an angry jerk of his arm.

‘You need to stop obsessing over this, Hermione,’ he said. He’d lowered his voice now, quiet and soft, but it didn’t stop her from shaking. ‘We’ve got roles to play now. Rules to play by. We’ve got to do things properly. That’s just how it is. That’s how people stay _safe._ ’

Ron wasn’t back from the bar yet, and this was the first she’d seen of them since his birthday, but she stood from the table and grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair.

‘You know, Harry,’ she said, shrugging it on and pulling the buttons through the holes with fingers that felt too steady, ‘when people were dying, and people were being murdered, the Ministry used to tell us not to panic, to treat it like anything else. But you didn’t. _We_ didn’t. Because we knew that if we did then the death toll would rise and soon the Weasley surname or the names of our classmates might be printed.’

‘Hermione, don’t go—’

‘I wonder if it’s because you’ve lost that familial hook that you no longer give a shit, Harry.’ She gave him a wretched smile. ‘It’s just… it’s really sad that you’ve lost your spark so quickly.’

The doors opened, a flurry of students bustled in, and Hermione was lost amongst them – deaf to anything Harry could have said as she left.

But she knew – really, she knew – that he had said nothing.

 

* * *

 

‘I was thinking, though. Voldemort never hid. He claimed responsibility for everything he did. He was public. Alec hasn’t been like that. If he was really a supporter of Voldemort, and wants to imitate him in some way – isn’t that what he would do? Make some sort of public statement?’

Malfoy blinked slowly across from her, quill poised over sheets of parchment. ‘That’s not the answer to my question about the Runes mock paper, Granger.’

She waved a hand at him. ‘It’s still something to consider, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, definitely. But not now. And not by me. And not when I want an answer that is relevant to this paper we’ve been working through for the last half an hour.’

Hermione scowled. ‘Don’t be miserable.’

‘I’m not being _miserable_ ,’ he said, putting his quill down. He reached for a slice of apple from a small bowl by his books and ate with such strange precision that Hermione couldn’t help but stare. She felt like an intruder.

She glanced up as Theo slid back onto the bench beside her in the Great Hall. ‘How are you getting on?’ he asked.

‘We’re taking a break,’ she said.

He looked at the papers in front of them, at the half-filled exam sheets and the closed textbooks.

‘You were taking a break when I left.’

‘It’s an extended one,’ Malfoy said, voice gruff. ‘Did you manage to get the answer sheet?’

Theo pulled a ream of parchment from his satchel and put it in the middle of the table.

‘Babbage said we were the only students that had asked. I guess we’re ahead of the game in something at least.’

‘There are seven students in that class including us, Nott. I’d say we’re not ahead by much.’

Theo cast Malfoy a dour look. ‘And we won’t be if you two keep taking _extended breaks_. I thought you were supposed to be the smartest students in Hogwarts?’

‘We are,’ Hermione said. ‘Those breaks are the key to our success.’

Malfoy snorted. ‘There’s about as much truth in that as there is in one of Skeeter’s articles.’

‘Speaking of, did you both read the news this morning?’

Hermione didn’t want to answer Theo’s question. Not really. But they all knew she had. Every student read the _Prophet_ now. Waiting for the owls to drift in every morning like waiting for rain in a summer drought. Except the difference was that the rain would be welcome – a relief, something cool on hot skin and refreshing on dry tongues. The _Prophet_ had nothing positive to write about – no promise of growth and abundance. Only a commentary on the grim news from the day before or, even worse, something new.

‘They’re coming north,’ Theo said in the quiet. Hermione wondered what Malfoy was thinking. ‘I didn’t realise at first until Pansy pointed it out.’

‘Didn’t think she was that smart,’ Malfoy said. The jibe had lost its venom, and the spite fell flat. His tone was distanced and distracted.

‘You don’t think…?’

Would they reach Hogwarts? Hermione had heard the question passed around so many times already that morning.

‘No,’ Malfoy said. ‘It’s probably just gradual movement. Northern settlers got hit the hardest. That’s where they’ll find the most support.’

Theo seemed to fill a little at his words, like Malfoy spoke truth and honesty. Like he knew what would happen, and what wouldn’t. Hermione thought Theo put too much faith in his friend, but she supposed that Malfoy would be the one to know. He’d be the one to recognise movement patterns and to understand raids or deaths. He’d know because he was one of them – thought like one of them. And he’d know because he still did. Hermione didn’t think he’d always been hiding in his room when Voldemort took residence in his family’s home – didn’t think that at all.

‘Everyone’s talking about it,’ Hermione said. ‘Let’s not be everyone and get on with this, shall we?’

‘You changed your tune,’ Malfoy observed.

‘I remembered how close our exam was.’

Malfoy shrugged. He ate another slice of apple, wiped the juice on his fingers onto his trousers, and picked up his quill. He looked at her steadily. ‘Let’s start by you answering my original question, _shall we_? Or is that too much for you?’

Hermione chose to ignore him for the rest of their revision session.

 

* * *

 

A small village had been raided on the morning of Hermione’s Charms exam. It wasn’t too far away. A few women were missing. A man was dead. The rest of the villagers sat frightened in the safehouses that had been made in the war while looters stole their jewellery from their drawers, stole the food from their cupboards, took the money from their purses.

It spread the same feeling of unease, the same stench of wrongness, creeping across like cancer. Few had died; the loot was forced by greed and desperation, not ideology and masks. But it was the same. The same fear. It settled inside Hermione, weighty and heavy in the pit of her stomach.

‘It’s insane,’ Ginny said, leaning against the wall outside the Great Hall as they waited to be let in.

Hermione felt sick. ‘What is?’

‘They’re acting out because of financial instability – and yet they go around stealing other people’s money.’

‘We don’t even know what they want,’ Neville said. His hands were shaking as he clutched at notecards and muttered spells under his breath. ‘They might as well be ghosts.’

‘Armies need funding,’ Hermione told them. ‘They’ve been stealing long before publicised robbing became a part of their deal.’

They seemed unsettled by this, forced into silence as they waited nervously for the doors to open. She’d had an exam the day before – knew what the pressure felt like, a building headache behind her eyes. And then the quill would touch the parchment and she’d remember and it would feel like she knew absolutely nothing and absolutely everything.

She caught Malfoy’s eye down the corridor. His hands were in his pockets, leaning against the wall. Pansy was crouched at his feet, muttering to herself. Hermione remembered feeling like that when she did her OWLs. Now she felt too ill to move – and it wasn’t only her exams. It was that she had to sit in front of Alec tomorrow and look him in the eye when people were dead and women were missing.

She nodded at Malfoy.

He nodded back. ‘Okay?’ he mouthed.

She gave a shrug and a helpless, hopeless smile.

And he returned it, or some grim, more apathetic version – like he knew exactly how she felt.

She felt an instant, flashing pang of guilt. Because she’d pushed him away. Because he’d bared something to her and there wasn’t a second that didn’t go by where she didn’t look at him and remember it. Didn’t wonder what it would have been like if maybe she’d said yes. To his unspoken question. His offer. His honesty that she hadn’t been able to give him because what did that mean?

Where did it put her?

After eight years? After everything?

It felt, almost, like she was betraying herself.

Because he wasn’t that different. Not really. And so it felt like coming to _like_ something that she had always hated. That had always hated her. She wondered if it meant that she had changed more. She wondered if that was a bad thing. If, always, change had to be this pervasive cloud that hung over her. She wondered a lot of things, frankly.

And they were still the only two at night in the common room. It was still him that she went to like what had happened in France hadn’t happened – had it, really, happened? – and he didn’t even hide it, now. The way he watched her. The way he acted like she meant something. Like the way he thought about her was something whole and new and something intensely intimate that she almost couldn’t handle. Almost wanted to tell him not to and that she couldn’t _take_ it because when had he ever been this brutally honest if only with his eyes? Maybe it was better when he was being cruel. At least, then, anger and hatred was easier to define – to handle.

‘What’s going on there, then?’

Hermione’s eyes slid to Ginny’s. Her eyebrows were raised, waiting.

‘Going on where?’

‘You and Malfoy.’

‘What about me and Malfoy?’

‘You’re very familiar.’

Hermione hesitated. ‘And?’

Ginny shrugged. ‘And nothing. It’s a bit odd, is all.’

The doors opened to the hall, and Flitwick stepped in front of them. He made the typical announcements, followed by the usual instructions. Students stood up from the floor and began heading in.

Ginny hadn’t moved.

‘I don’t think it’s odd at all, actually,’ Hermione told her, gritting her teeth because Ginny’s tone – her expression – held everything in it that Hermione already thought to herself.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing because – well, I don’t really _get it_ , to be honest with you.’

 ‘Well – _Ginny_ – to be honest with you: I don’t really _care_.’

She pushed away from the corridor, and found her seat in the hall. Everyone around her thrummed with a nervous energy: legs shaking, quills tapping against the side of desks, hands moving constantly through tangled hair. Hermione filled in her details on the front page of her answer booklet, and then sat, calm, hands folded in her lap, paper so white against the scratched desk covered in hundreds of years of students’ anxious scrawls. She wish she didn’t feel so calm – wished she felt as wired as she always did. Wished she felt _something_ other than this pervasive sickness.

Flitwick’s voice was loud at the front of the hall once everyone had been seated, his wand pressed against his throat to magnify his voice. A large clock waited behind him, and a table of invigilators sat beside it, scribbling on sheets, staring at the unfamiliar mass of students before them.

‘You may begin,’ he said.

Hermione stared at the paper. It took her far too long to turn the first page.

 

* * *

 

She answered all the questions. Even the ones she didn’t know – should have known. Her eyes were stinging by the end, and she felt nauseous and tired and ready to sleep. She slipped away when her row was dismissed, and there was a note waiting in her room for her, caught beneath the pane of her open window and struggling to free itself.

 _Don’t go looking, Hermione_ , it said.

She recognised Harry’s writing.

The four words made her pause; she knew too well what he meant. They didn’t make her pause for long.

She lit the paper and watched the ashes fly from her window – free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys -- back at university now and it's, typically, taking over my life again. :(


	27. Chapter 27

‘You know you’ve never asked about my parents.’

Malfoy didn't look up. He was organising note cards into some sort of order, putting them in stacks before laying them all out across the coffee table again. She recognised some familiar runes, but some she didn’t. Probably should have done.

‘You’ve not mentioned it,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think it would be right to pry.’

‘You pry into everything, though.’

‘I really don’t. You mistake my _distinct_ lack of interest for curiosity and tell me everything anyway and blame _me_ for _your_ inability to shut your bloody _mouth_.’

She bit her lip.

‘Do you want to tell me?’ he asked, unfathomably. When did he ever give her a choice like that?

‘I want to find them,’ Hermione said. She thought she should have felt guilty that the words pass her lips less than an hour after she found Harry’s note – burnt it. But she was struggling to find things to feel guilty about anymore, and she was struggling to not find things that made her angry.

His fingers stilled. 'Your... parents?'

'The Death Eaters.'

He blinked, shook his head. ‘I suppose I don’t need to ask any more questions, do I?’

‘I can stop whoever is behind this,’ she said, ignoring the disinterested tone. ‘Alec. Vivian. Whoever it is. I can stop them.’

‘You don’t know who it is, Granger,’ Malfoy said baldly. ‘You don’t know what they want. No one does.’

‘They’re hurting people. That’s enough.’

‘Are they?’ Malfoy said. He lay the cards out again, and she wanted to burn them. He hadn’t looked at her once since she walked into the common room. He picked up an orange from the fruit bowl on the table, and began peeling it with his usual, strange fastidiousness.

 _Look at me,_ she wanted to say. _Just goddamn_ look _at me._

She crossed her arms impatiently. ‘What?’ she said instead. ‘What are you trying to say?’

‘Are they hurting anyone? Because we don’t really _know_.’

‘The _Prophet_ —‘

‘You believe the _Prophet_ now,’ he said, in mocking disbelief. ‘Every word it says. Every non-existent photo it’s given us and every local rumour whose origins no one can _quite_ figure out.’

‘You think it’s made up?’ she asked steadily. ‘You think that money’s not funding it?’

‘To be perfectly honest with you, Granger,’ he sighed, rising from the floor and falling into the armchair, looking at her with tired eyes, ‘I don’t really _think_ anything about it anymore. I’ve lost interest.’

There was a moment. A moment where his words made her want to wrap her fingers around his throat until his pale skin bruised. She didn’t have the liberty of being enigmatic and mercurial and _flippant_. She didn’t have the liberty of ignoring something when it got hard – when it got _boring_. Not when the foundations of a nation were splintering.

‘You’re lying,’ she said.

He raised his eyebrows, pale and arched and as pristine as the rest of him. ‘Am I?’

Hermione gritted her teeth. He’d gotten her into this fucking mess. Got her fighting again and thinking. Got her to go to that ball and wear a stupid dress – got her to waste so much _time_ on something that had overcome her. Kept her going. Driven her. Seeped into her limbs and made her feet shuffle forward and made her eyes keep blinking. He couldn’t just give up now. Give up on her.

He was supposed to ride the waves with her – see it all through to the end, like Harry or Ron would have done.

But he wasn’t Harry or Ron, was he? And she wondered why she had the same expectations from someone like him. She wondered why, sometimes, she thought he would give her _more_ than they did.

‘Don’t do that,’ she said. ‘Don’t pretend like you don’t care when we both know that you do.’

‘Do I?’ he asked. ‘I think you need to stop asking yourself why I don’t, and start asking yourself why you _do_.’

‘Because I’m in this because of _you_!’ she cried. ‘Because I thought that – that if something caught _your_ eye then it was probably worth catching _mine_.’ She raked a hand through her hair, catching in tangles and knots that made her eyes sting. ‘I thought that after everything that had happened, you were still smart enough to pick your battles. And you chose this one. So I followed you.’

‘Not very smart that, was it?’

‘No,’ Hermione said, realising. ‘No, it wasn’t.’

Malfoy chewed on an orange segment. A bead of juice shivered on his lower lip, tongue darting out to catch it.

‘What will you do then, Granger?’ he asked. Like she hadn’t said anything – declared anything. His dismissal made her feel more idiotic than relieved. ‘When you find them.’

She was silent.

‘Going to march into camp and tell them that you’ve caught them? Smack their wrists and send them on their way?’

She was still silent. And that was enough for him. He let out a quiet laugh, a huff of air. ‘I thought so,’ it said, but he just shook his head instead of saying it. It made her skin flush, her spine thrum with anger and anticipation and need. Need for movement and fear and – blood.

She tried to imagine how it would happen. Tried to imagine slipping past guards and watchers and barrier spells. Tried to imagine sneaking through a camp filled with men hundreds strong. Tried to imagine finding the tent as mud seeped into her jeans and finding the one she was looking for – just sitting there. She imagined Alec’s face. Imagined him looking up from a book, from a report, face settled into mild surprise. Like he’d known she was coming – but didn’t actually think she would. Didn’t think she’d get that far.

He’d tell her to sit down. And she’d sit. Because she’d realise that she was alone and that she had her wand but for once it wasn’t enough and what wasn’t enough was all she knew.

‘I _will_ find them,’ she told Malfoy.

‘If you find them, Granger,’ he said, ‘and by saying this I’m humouring you of their existence – then I think you’ll find yourself getting killed.’

‘I’m not stupid enough for that.’

He just stared at her. She heard her own words thrown back at him in his voice; in his tangible silence.

Then he said, quietly, hesitantly, ‘This would be a very boring world if you died, Granger.’

It should have made her want to run – to leave – more than anything. She hated that it only made her want to stay.

 

* * *

 

She packed a bag that night. Like she’d done every night. A habit of being a fugitive – of having to be prepared to run. It was ratty and threadbare and sometimes the magic fizzled and she’d get her arm stuck in the fabric when she looked for something. But it smelled of pine, and mud, and rivers. It had blood on it, and smudges of something else, and the fabric was rough like it had always been in her hand.

She had a bottle of dittany, a diary, an empty thermos and small bags of dried fruit and nuts. She had a full change of clothes, more changes of underwear, a toothbrush and useless hairbrush. She had a book of hexes that she’d copied out from the Restricted Section; an erratic, gnarled wand she’d stolen from a Snatcher that made her skin thrum and itch when she used it.

It was all useless, really. It wouldn’t keep her alive. If she didn’t know how to defend herself then she’d never get to the dittany in time. If she had time to flick through a book on hexes then she didn’t know enough.

She packed the bag, as she did every night _– just in case_ – and knew that the only thing that made her do it was sentiment.

 

* * *

 

There was a knock on her door before midnight. And she’d been sitting at the edge of her bed wondering what she was supposed to do now. Remembering that when they’d started looking for the horcruxes it had started on a random whim. On the need to survive. She had the latest _Prophet_ report in her hands, paper scrunching in her fists, and it said where they’d last been.

Didn’t matter that as she read it she noticed how vague it was. How the descriptions of the figures hadn’t changed: just dark and hooded. How there were no names. How Malfoy might have been onto something, actually, and how what she was about to do was probably the stupidest thing she’d ever done.

But if it came to nothing, then it came to nothing, right? Because then at least she would have satisfied that dull buzz of curiosity, of eagerness, of something else that made her want to check because she didn’t trust anyone’s else’s word. And if it was true, then did she trust anyone else to finish it all? It had been her, Harry, and Ron last time. Driven by prophecy and some sort of divine will. And if they refused to get involved, then did she even have any choice?

She folded up the paper when she heard the knock, shoved it into her bag, called out for them to come in.

‘You’re really going,’ Malfoy said, after a silence, shutting the door behind him. He was staring at the bag, like he recognised it. Like he knew what it was. Like it meant something that was real – somehow confirmed her words that before had just been _words._

‘I said so.’

‘I didn’t think you’d—’ He broke off, shook his head. ‘Actually, no. Of course I fucking did. Because this is so _you_.’

‘Do you really want to argue about the sort of _person_ I am, Malfoy? Or are you going to let me go?’

‘I’ll tell Potter you’ve gone.’

‘ _Go on_ then,’ she said snidely, rolling her eyes. How hilarious that _he_ was the one using Harry as a bargaining chip now. As some sort of authoritative threat. But it didn’t stop that sharp pang of disappointment burying itself in her. Didn’t stop her from thinking about what she would be putting on him again once he knew what she was doing. But, really, didn’t Harry already _know_ she would leave? Had he really thought that some flimsy piece of parchment was all it would take to stop her? Hermione had that disorienting feeling of wondering if he knew her at all, and hoping that he was going to prove her wrong.

Malfoy didn’t do anything. Just leaned against the door with folded arms. She used to feel trapped when he stood there like that, languid like he could keep her caged in and not really care much about it. But she had come to realise that the pose – that particular holding of himself – was his fallback. It was how, when he wasn’t sure what person he wanted to be that day, or what person he wanted to let himself appear to be, he would become. It was easy, and outrageously arrogant, and suggested some total obliviousness to everything around him. And, incidentally, it drew all that was around him to become focused _on_ him. Including her.

‘You could come with me,’ she said. And she didn’t know why she said it. Maybe because she thought that really he wanted the adventure. Maybe because she wanted him to prove her wrong that, when things grew difficult, he didn’t just slide back into his hole. Maybe because some minuscule part of her thought that he might actually care what happened to her. And it wouldn’t be about protecting her, because she didn’t need that with him. But she thought just the _being with_ would be enough.

Perhaps it was part of her own arrogance. Perhaps she had overestimate the sort of sentimental person Malfoy was. That when he told her how he felt about her – about how _interesting_ he found her – it didn’t mean quite as much from him as it would have from someone else. And because he didn’t really act like anyone else, this wasn’t entirely surprising. But she had to acknowledge that, maybe, it was a little disappointing.

‘You could not go at all,’ he countered eventually. ‘Seems like the more sensible option.’

‘Has the world stopped turning? You’re the one telling _me_ to be sensible?’

‘Looks like it,’ he said, eyes unreadable. ‘You’re also the one running off to take on some invisible army.’

She sighed, felt herself stiffen slightly as he wandered over. Sat beside her on the bed, and she felt the weight of him beside her. Felt the strange warmth of him that he always seemed to give out, which sort of surprised her. Strange, not because it was unnatural, but because everything else about him was entirely cold.

‘Granger… Christ, I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to get through to you.’

‘Difficult being nice, isn’t it?’

‘It is, actually. Yeah. Don’t know how you lot do it.’

She blinked. ‘You lot?’

‘You. Potter. Everyone else. Not me.’

She frowned at him. ‘I’m not nice, Malfoy.’

He laughed at this. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘’Course you’re not.’

‘I’m not. I transformed someone into an animal and kept them in a jar. I set a teacher’s robes on fire and scarred someone permanently.  I petrified a friend. I—I wiped my parents _memory_ because it was the easiest thing to do. What—what child does that? I study—I study dark magic sometimes just because I can and because it’s interesting. And sometimes…’ A whisper, ‘Sometimes I think about using it too. And I’m also bossy and I take control of things and sometimes I _don’t_ care about anyone else’s opinion but mine. So. You see. I’m not really very nice at all.’

Malfoy, after this, was looking at her thoughtfully. He was leaning back on his hands, teeth grazing his lower lip. It made her feel _funny_ to be the one he was looking _at._ Like everything she was saying was actually quite true, and he was starting to rearrange the pieces of her to for something new that he hadn’t, really, noticed before.

She found a part of herself wondering if he liked it.

‘You sound positively Slytherin,’ he said eventually.

‘Except that a lot of you are actually quite nice,’ she told him – admitted. She thought about Theo. His tentative kindness. ‘Niceness and having ambition don’t go hand in hand.’

‘Are you going to go off an an inter-house spirit spiel?’

Her lips quirked in a half-smile. ‘I don’t have time for that.’

‘Right,’ he said, realising, nodding. ‘Got to go and save the day, haven’t you? Throw yourself into an abyss.’

‘Don’t be melodramatic.’

He just stared at her, sat up fully with a back painfully straight. And then he leaned in until their faces were almost touching and just stared right _at_ her. He said, ‘You really have lost all sense of preservation, haven’t you?’

‘What’s that supposed to—’

She should have expected it. Really she should have. But having Draco Malfoy’s lips on hers was not an entirely expected _thing._ And she hadn’t had enough the first time to remember how it felt, and so it felt new. And unhurried, and slow, and questioning. And begging.

And she closed her eyes and leaned into it and didn’t think about what that would mean. Didn’t wonder if that was an answer to him somehow. If she now _had_ an answer for him.

She was aching when they parted, because he hadn’t even touched her. Hadn’t even touched her face or put a hand on her leg or done anything. Just moved his lips against hers, shivering, searching, and all she felt was some emptiness. Some desperation to put her hands in his hair and have him pressed against her like it was the last time. When everything was filled with _him_ and she didn’t have time to think about anything else. _Couldn’t_ think about anything else.

His eyes were hooded when he blinked at her, lips turning dark. His breath was low. She felt that dark, sudden thrill of knowing that if she put a hand on him just _there_ she could feel what she’d done to him. Her. And distantly she wondered that she’d never felt that kind of thrill before, that kind of power and control over something like him—something that was so—so _dangerous_. And it was like she had tamed it. Like she could keep it leashed for a few hours, but she’d have to struggle and fight through the whole thing.  

He said, ‘Have you got time for this?’

And she blinked. ‘I—what—’

‘A few hours. That’s it. Then you can go.’

‘That’s not fair,’ she whispered.

‘Choose, Granger. Please just choose. Tell me you want this. Tell me this is something we could have.’

‘And then I just get up and leave?’

‘If you want.’

She swallowed, looked away. ‘I couldn’t. I’d—I’d feel—’

His fingers were on her jaw, tilting her head, eyes searching for hers. ‘We’ve already established that neither of us are very nice, haven’t we? I won’t be offended.’

She could tell he was trying to joke. Trying to mask whatever this was so it didn’t mean much. So it wouldn’t mean much if she said yes and left. So it wouldn’t mean much when they considered that it was _them_. But it meant everything. And, maybe, that was why she wanted it. And it wasn't even giving in. Wasn't betraying anything. Really, it was just letting go.

So she said, ‘Okay.’

And then he did not hold back.

 

* * *

 

Sex – fucking – whatever it was – was not like Hermione thought she knew it was. Not with him.

Nothing had a pace to it. It was slow and torturous and aching and then it was breathless and Hermione tried to snatch at their air with her lungs, hands and feet scrabbling against the sheets.

It was a searching thing, a building thing. And she could feel it in her throat, a cry forming, that lump that made you feel like you were ready to choke and have tears flood your eyes and Hermione thought that at one point she might have been crying.

But she told him not to stop.

And he didn’t. Kept going. Kept pushing. Had his lips pressing into every part of her skin until there was no part of her untouched. Kept going until her eyes were rolling back in her head and her back arched up into his mouth, hot breath running over her flesh and lighting it up with goosebumps. Had his head bowing between her thighs, lips pressing on her veins until she saw stars, fingers across her scalp that made her electric, wasn't sure where she found her breath, but she thought it came from his lungs. Had his body trembling, hovering above her and closing in and caging her in until there was nothing but pale skin and blond-white hair and eyes that made the whole thing feel like a tragedy.

And everything was straining, everything heading to some precipice that she was ready to fall over. And distantly she could hear the way her voice sounded as it tore through her; how the bed was hitting against the wall in some cacophonous affirmation of it all. She could hear his breath, hear the way he swore so quietly, so fucking refined, how he kept asking if this was okay if she wanted this if she was sure and _yes._ God, she was so _sure._

And she told him that she was close and it was real and she felt it coming like the stilled, drawn out shore before a tsunami. Felt herself coiled up and ready to break. And she was digging nails into his back and pressing her heels into the base of his spine and when she came it was into a kiss, a moan, almost a scream, almost breathless nothingness, into his mouth that she felt was smiling.

And then she rode it, eyes staring up at the canopy while he lowered himself beside her, and they lay there panting and shivering and sweat-slicked and his hands trailed across her stomach and her rib cage and she trembled and touched the veins in his throat and the dip of his shoulders and they looked at each other and didn’t smile and didn’t say anything and it just—felt— _blissed_.

 

* * *

 

Malfoy didn’t move when he slept. He didn’t actually make a sound.

Was she supposed to call him Draco now? She thought the word in her head, imagined herself saying it, the way it might feel to move her tongue around it, the hard ‘c’, the rolling of the ‘Dr’, the ‘o’ like maybe it was a breath. She laughed silently to herself, at her ridiculousness, of the ridiculousness that even now it didn’t sound right. Even now that they’d, what, fucked? Had sex? Made love? Wasn’t that supposed to _change_ things? Be some big, revelation between them where all barriers fell down?

The thing was, they still weren’t good to each other, and they said cruel things and never apologised for them afterwards, which they probably should have started to. But she thought she liked him. Probably too much, given the circumstances. Given who they were. And it was why it was _probably_ okay that they called each other by their surnames, because that didn’t really _say_ much about them. Really, it said nothing at all. Their surnames were just how they’d known each other, and had continued to know each other, and it was something a little bit like a secret to know that they’d shared some hidden, sordid part of themselves and that, to the outside world, it would seem like they barely knew one another at all.

And Hermione was getting used to that kind of thing, pretending to be one thing when she was really another.

All of that, however, was whimsical and nostalgic for a future that hadn’t happened. She was thinking like they were a _thing_. Like there was some permanence to them – to what they’d done. She was not surprised to find herself wishing that maybe there would be a permanence.

She looked at him. He looked like he always did, just unmarred by spite, or anger, and it made him look older, and smoother, and like the Draco Malfoy he might have been if Life hadn’t happened. She looked at the scars across his chest, mottled and angry, and at the mark on his arm, that seemed angrier, snake recoiling into the skull as she put her forearm next to his. She thought there was probably someone watching them from above and laughing at the disgusting irony of it.

 _Does this make us star-crossed yet?_ she thought. And then she remembered that it didn’t mean opposite forces coming together. Didn’t mean two people who, by all accounts, shouldn’t be together. It just meant two people who were doomed to fail. So she rescinded her quiet thought, something of a wish, and hoped it didn’t make them like that at all. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know why something – what sort of thing – would force them to an end. Hadn’t they gone through enough already?

She thought he’d be disappointed when he woke up, because some part of him had probably expected her to stay, and she thought that some part of _herself_ had thought she’d stay. And it would have been easy not to go. Really, really easy.

But she went, left him in her bed, sprawled in the sheets, looked like a Greek statue in the darkness. Outside the birds hadn’t even started singing, and the dark was heavy. She wanted to touch him. Kiss him. Because she could. But she didn’t. She just shut the door behind her with a lasting look that was so _longing_ , the sight of him growing smaller and smaller as the door closed, and then she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this could have been much smuttier but it didn't feel... right; didn't really fit in with the style of the story i think. did it feel right that they even had that 'moment' at all? idk. still undecided. felt pretty right though for them to have that before she left. 
> 
> thank you to everyone for commenting; i do read them all and they do mean so much to me. i'm sorry i haven't been replying lately but i'm working on a few other non-hp works and uni (my course is classical literature and civilisation the lovely person who asked! greeks, romans, byzantines, etc.) and dissertation is already killing me and it's only week 2 ;w; i figured you guys would probably rather i spent time working on the next chapters than replying to comments, but please know that i do appreciate them all so much and i will get around to replying to the sooner or later. ily all! x (ps. if you ever want to say hi come find me over at my tumblr: powerandpathos.tumblr.com )


End file.
